


Forgive Me, I Was Blind

by Ex_Nihilo



Category: Purple Hyacinth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Bear with me friends, Canon Compliant (But not really), F/M, Give OKW a hug 2020, I'm the child and the puppeteer too, Kieran is a ball of existential angst, Kieran loses a marble each chapter, Retelling, Role Reversal, Roleswap, SNAFU, Welcome to my playground!, everything is burning!, isn't it always?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 88,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ex_Nihilo/pseuds/Ex_Nihilo
Summary: Yet ironically, for the past ten years, he had been the blindest of all...Officer Kieran White was blessed (or, as he’d argue, cursed) with the ability to detect lies. Living by the day and blaming only himself for the past, he grasps for the answers he so desires to put his past to rest. Not that he really deserves that solace.Enter Lauren, better known as the Purple Hyacinth. An assassin bent on taking down all that she kills in the name of, but what for?Expect some familiar events. Expect some new ones. (And maybe there will be a bit of cheesecake.)Sometimes, two flowers will grow as one, will intertwine- no matter which the sun opts to fall upon.Sometimes, there's an enticing cold to be found within the sunlight.And, sometimes, there's a comfort that lies within the darkness, too.A Roleswap AU.
Relationships: But I say it's fuel so let it burn, Canon-esque Relationships, Kym Ladell & William Hawkes, Kym Ladell/William Hawkes, Lauren Sinclair & Kieran White, Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White
Comments: 182
Kudos: 205





	1. Ante Bellum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: before the war)_

_What if you believed that you knew better than anyone else? Because, unlike you, they can’t see the lies. Yet ironically, for the past ten years, you had been the blindest of all..._

.

.

.

  
  


With the exception of a nocturnal few, the Ardhalis City Square would have been subdued on such a weekday night. Once the sun hit its peak in the sky, the masses would surely rush to work, basking in the dichotomy of their successes and their everyday discontent. Children would gallop through the streets, laughing as they dirtied their shoes on their way to school. None of them would have any knowledge of the horrors that lurked just outside of their waking hours.

  
  


As the clock tower began its slow crawl into the hours past midnight, the only figures present were the members of the Ardhalis Police Department. The Eleventh Precinct stood in a carefully guarded line, their shadows cast parallel onto the pavement in a discordant pattern. With lamplight in their eyes and the darkness cast over their faces, it couldn’t be denied that the officers were primed for their work, utterly prepared. It did nothing to siphon the panic from their voices, from their gaits. 

  
  


“Krist Schaeffer!” The edge in the man’s harsh voice was quickly lost to the roaring winds that whipped past all of their faces, mocking their efforts. “You are under arrest for planting a bomb in the Homston’s Theater!” The heavy rain weighed down on the spirits of both parties. The cool bath dulled the sharp edge of defiance radiating from a single man. 

  
  


He was maybe forty feet shy of the nearest officer, and justice. In spite of the foul weather, his eyes held a feral flame that seemed to be everburning. He was bright enough to realize that his rebellious campaign had lurched to a standstill. Despite his impending doom, Krist Schaeffer smiled. 

  
  


“Hey, you pigs! You think you can stop the Phantom Scythe? You’re _nothing_ compared to them! _To us!_ ” He raked his eyes across each hidden face, his gaze penetrating each officer’s mask, meant to conceal identities and symbolize unity. Schaeffer’s movements were frantic, each word from his mouth spiked with harsh intonation, slurred together in his desperation. He seemed to be drunk on his motives alone.

  
  


“Officers… Do you value this city? Do you value _your lives_ ?” His fingers, hysterically shaking, fell deep into a pocket of his trenchcoat. “One more step… **and you all will die.** ”

A grenade. The collective energy pulsing through the officers halted, their bodies turning to stone.

  
  


“IT’S A GRENADE! EVERYBODY BACK! NOW!”

  
  


Training and fear. The two embraced, amalgamating within the police - pulling them back, slowly and surely. Each of them had long since had the protocol for bomb threats drilled into their minds, etched and branded. They intended to follow through. 

Most of them.

  
  


A lone figure stood slightly wayward from the line, a phantom with sapphire eyes trained on the criminal. In the midst of the chaos, he was sure. He was deathly calm.

  
  


As if operating under some signal that nobody else could see, the man ran against the tide of his precinct.

  
  


_“Officer! What the hell do you-”_ Without time to be scolded, much less think, he persisted on his course. The familiar hum of adrenaline through his veins sent him flying. Any picometer of doubt pulsing through his system would only slow him down. Even so, it would’ve been too late.

  
  


The pin had been pulled. Krist Schaeffer’s face was contorted into the grin of a child, one who then dropped the grenade like a toy he no longer wanted to play with. The phantom man heard his comrades shouting in the distance. 

_“Officer!”_

_“Kieran!”_

_“Don’t!”_

_“It’s too late!”_

They formed a sickening melody within his mind.

  
  


_Too late._ He knew that such a notion was the worst and most damning excuse a man could give to do nothing at all.

  
  


_BOOM._

Smoke enveloped the masses, the acrid smell of metal and sulfur filling the air. It could be noted that the smell of death was undoubtedly absent. 

_“It was fake! The bomb was fake!”_ Disdain filled the precinct as they charged forward once more. Death wouldn’t wait for the smoke to clear to claim the dozens of lives on the line.

  
  


Krist Schaeffer was a tall specimen, similar in stature to the officer. Whatever the case, a mix of vigorous training and superior genetics had given Kieran a body that was able to pin the malefactor to the city street with ease. A knee pressed into his spine and strong fingers encircling his head were enough from Kieran to knock the wind out of the scum sprawled helplessly on the city square beneath him.

Kieran leisurely bent down to Schaeffer’s level, with a slowness that suggested that the officer had all the time in the world, could torment the man for infinity. But that was a lie that Kieran himself wouldn’t buy, had he not been in possession of his ability. Lives were on the line.

  
  


“Red,” Kieran breathed, “or Blue?” His grip tightened on the man.

  
  


“Foolish,” Schaeffer laughed, even in the midst of his defeat. “You can’t win a game of chess by picking on the pawns. Too bad the APD is being bested! It all seems to be a game!” His words were choked by a demonic sort of laughter, taunting the officer still.

  
  
  


“Your figurative language moves me, Schaeffer. But the timing is not ideal.” Kieran slammed the man’s face into the asphalt below. He took bitter rapture in the inevitable sound of rocks kissing his flesh.

“ _Red_ ,” He repeated, “or _Blue_ ?” Kieran’s face betrayed none of the ghosts lingering just beyond his lips. Even still, his voice shuddered with a dry sort of contempt as he whispered. He himself was the wind chilling the air on that night, the wraith present in the lingering smoke. “Keep it to yourself, then… _but don’t expect any sympathy when your blood spills onto these streets.”_

  
  


“ **Blue** …” The blonde man whimpered. Were his eyes watering from the smoke, or from pain? The look of maniacal fanaticism on his face was unmistakable, despite any torment he had experienced, on the inside or otherwise.

  
  


Kieran’s transceiver crackled as he raised the device to his lips. _“Officer White! How-”_

  
  


“Cut the _red wire.”_

  
  


Schaeffer gasped, outraged. “ _How-”_

  
  


Kieran silenced him quickly, pressing his knee further into the man’s back. His transceiver piped up once more. 

  
  


_“Are you positive? Lives are on the line here!”_

  
  


His voice grew heavier, more desperate. “Yes, I’m positive! Cut it!”

.

.

.

  
  


_“Bomb Disposal Unit Reporting. The threat has been successfully neutralized.”_

  
  


A collective sigh of relief broke the grave silence that had been suffocating the city square. Each officer’s icy demeanor began to thaw, and their identities were regained.

  
  


Once Schaeffer’s wrists were cuffed by metal, Kieran’s job was done. Shaking the rain from his uniform and pressing some of the water from his hair, he shuddered as he recalled his actions. A hand on the man’s head, a knee in his back - Kieran didn’t savor violence, as much as he believed that those extra measures had been the turning point towards justice only a few minutes prior.

  
  


“Kie- Officer White!” A frantic voice called, followed by awkward, hurried footsteps. Harvey Wood, the Eleventh Precinct’s newest member and freshest face. “God, you really scared us back there! When you started running towards it, I-”

  
  


“It’s okay, Harvey! Really,” Kieran clapped his partner on the shoulder, steadying the quiver in his hand. “The striker head was modified. The lever was a lot shorter than a regular grenade, too. Frags tend to have longer heads for… safety purposes.”

  
  


He couldn’t help but question the concern that the people who manufactured grenades had towards the well-being of their users. Their smoke betrayed no sympathies, the sounds no concern. They hadn’t, even _then._

_No._ Kieran deepened his breaths, focusing on Harvey’s words with a new reverence. 

  
  


He didn’t seem to notice. _“Ah…_ how in the world did you catch all that? Officer, you make the rest of us in the department seem lethargic.”

  
  


“Now, _I know my talents are an object of desire,_ but I got lucky! Really.” Kieran pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders. “I’ll take my leave now, I’ve got some paperwork calling my name back at the station. And it’s _‘Kieran’_ to you. Don’t be a stranger.”

  
  


“Sure, alright!” Harvey’s face melted into an easy smile. Kieran hadn’t stuck around to see it. “Wait… Kieran, isn’t- isn’t the station down _that_ street?”

  
  


Once he was freed from the stifling gazes of his peers, it embraced him.

  
  


It was never more than one, two, ten steps behind. He saw it in the shadows over his shoulder in the cover of the night. He recognized it in the way he breathed, the places he looked. He could only ignore the darkness for so long. 

  
  


_“Damn it…_ ”

  
  


The wind was swept from his lungs, and he sought support from the nearest building. It was a sturdy brick one at the lip of an alleyway that Kieran had likely strolled down countless times before, but he didn’t take notice. Grief was his blindfold. 

It was times like these where Kieran couldn’t pacify his conscience. Any praise he recieved was another finger coiled around his windpipe - choking him, draining him. Kieran knew it was only a matter of time until he wouldn’t be able to find it within himself to breathe anymore. He was not one to chase death, or to covet it. But he could only bring himself to accept the kindness of others in small quantities. Each helping of sugar that he ingested had to be taken with a grain of salt. On his worst days, a spoonful. 

Sometimes, he fell to a point when any more praise would physically hurt to hear. 

  
  


He was often the only one to recognize a mouth’s elaborate fabrication, or a slippery promise. But it sometimes seemed that Kieran was the only one who could comprehend the truth, too. That he wasn’t brave or particularly praiseworthy at all. He was a coward. A-

  
  


“Kieran? Is that you?” The face, illuminated by the streetlamps that flickered lazily at every block, was familiar to Kieran despite the ivory mask concealing the young man’s eyes. He took a bit of comfort in knowing that the blonde would recognize him from under his mask likewise.

  
  


He often found himself wearing two masks, one of cloth and the other of lies. He plastered the second over his first.

  
  


“Stalking me, Lieutenant?” Kieran flashed a sly grin at his comrade. “Perhaps I should call the police.”

  
  


The lieutenant retorted with a look that Kieran shared. The questioning of the officer’s sanity was a mutual one.

  
  


“Too much? Understood, _Lieutenant Hawkes_.”

  
  


“Don’t start.” Will scoffed. “Putting me on a fake pedestal like some boy-prince makes both of us feel sick. And I heard what you were saying to Harvey before - _hypocrite.”_

  
  


Kieran sighed. “What can I do for you, old friend?”

  
  


“I just wanted to say that you did good today, Kieran. As always…” Will raised his hand to the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “Look… you didn’t really seem like yourself today. Not since we were called in this afternoon to patrol for Schaeffer. Just know… that if you need to talk, I’m here. Always have been, always will be.”

  
  


A rueful smile worked its way onto Kieran’s lips. “Right. Thanks.”

  
  


The two parted, and each made their own way home. There were only a couple of hours until the sun would rise once again, and duty would call once more. 

  
  


Kieran appreciated the solace Will offered, he really did. But his companion would be incapable of offering much reprieve from his worries. Kieran hadn’t been himself, not for as long as Will had known him. Certain situations would break a floodgate within his mind, after which his phantoms would consume him. They would force themselves down his throat and into his very core. 

  
  


This was at no fault of Will’s; there was no possible way for him to gain any sort of understanding as long as he remained oblivious to the numbness within his friend. That was exactly the way that Kieran planned to keep it.

  
  


Kieran couldn’t take back the past. He couldn’t say words that had gone unspoken, couldn’t resuscitate the dead. 

All he could do was be alive, stay alive. Step forward, take a breath, get home every night safe. Relatively. 

  
  


And try not to be the monster that he knew, deep down, he became thousands of suns ago.

  
  


It took all of the remaining fight in his mind to convince himself that it wasn’t already too late. That he could still claim what was his, who he was. But, it had been so long that Kieran wasn’t even sure that he ever could really know himself again.

  
  


He could only try.

  
  


He just didn't think that in his attempts, he would ever, under any circumstance, team up with _her..._

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading!
> 
> If you haven't read PH already, read it here: https://www.webtoons.com/en/mystery/purple-hyacinth/list?title_no=1621
> 
> Hopefully, you enjoyed the first chapter of this work. Given the current state of the world, I will have plenty of time to continue with this. I had so much fun writing this first chapter! As the PH discord has inspired me and has me trying to get back into my writing groove, feedback is always welcome.
> 
> Cool! Thanks again!


	2. Ad Nauseum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She dropped the blossom in her wake, crimson waste immediately beginning to nibble at its delicate purple petals.
> 
>   
> “Greetings from the Leader. Please receive our regards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: extensively, to the point of exhaustion)_

Kieran had been taught that to court a lady was a sophisticated dance, one with complex steps that would take ages to master. By the time that one became fluent, the drills rehearsed would fade into misuse, as they should. As a boy, he had always found the metaphor to be poetic. Beautiful, even.

  
  


Despite the fact that he was a grown man of twenty-four, Kieran hadn't stumbled through that routine in ages. For him, a date had begun to only bear a single meaning to his mind.

  
  


He loathed, but was amused by the fact that the meaning it bore was  _ food.  _

  
  


Likely because he didn’t often take women out, the occasions were seldom qualitative. It was rare for him to meet with anyone for a second time. But, he could classify each rendezvous by the meeting spot, and what refreshments were enjoyed.

  
  


Kieran would always have eyes for a sticky pastry, a fresh piece of fruit, or an exotic tea. People, on the contrary, were harder to fall for.

  
  


His history of dates ranged from intriguing to wildly unpleasant. Luckily, the present situation fit into a comfortable spot on the spectrum. 

  
  


Comfortable was very much a relative concept.

  
  


He sat in a café, his eyes burning slightly from the sleepless night prior. The warm afternoon light was magnified by the large glass windows, providing no reprieve. The weather was nice, and the warmth was a relief. At the very least, the setting was pleasant.

  
  


Through his bleary vision, he tried to assess the somewhat distracted blonde woman sitting across from him. Rosa Grayson was quite the affluent member of Ardhalis - he had long since learned that she was heiress to her late brother’s successful shipping company. Her wealth was evident in her silk dress, her impeccably done makeup, and the golden chains draped over her collar.

  
  


As the warmth of pleasantries exchanged ebbed away, the environment surrounding their small table became glacial. It had been ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and the only points of interest for Kieran thus far had been his black coffee and the half-eaten plate of vanilla cheesecake staring back at him. 

  
  


He idly picked up his steaming mug, letting the murky liquid dance in place as he twirled his wrist.

  
  


“Officer, do I spot a coffee connoisseur such as myself?”

  
  


Kieran briskly lifted his head, shocked at her sudden interest. The only thing that Lady Grayson was seeing was an unintended hint of his apathy. He flashed a grin. “Well,  _ connoisseur  _ is a strong word, isn’t it?” 

  
  


Kieran couldn’t know less about coffee. He tended to take it the same, dark and bitter, only enticing enough to serve its purpose. The drip coffee served at the precinct was seldom enough to stifle his fatigue and awaken his mind, but a second (or third) helping always did the trick.

  
  


The lady leaned forward, suddenly attentive. “Allow me to be your teacher, then.”

  
  


A sort of light had ignited in her dark eyes that had been absent up until that point. Kieran concluded that it would be a waste of time to explore Rosa Grayson as a person, much less a romantic prospect, any further. 

But, for the time being, he could be polite.

  
  


Setting down his cup, Kieran mimicked the woman’s motions, leaning in and propping his chin up on his fist. “Do tell.”

  
  


Grayson lifted her mug, clutching the porcelain with a delicate grasp. She took a sip. “I suggested this café for a reason. The beans are grown here in Ardhalis, on the very edge of the country… They ferment for a year before use. A good brew really does take time, it’s important to remember.”

  
  


_ “Hmm.” _

  
  


“This café uses a french press to really concentrate the flavor, too. And…”

  
  


The lady’s voice trailed off. Her dull amber eyes slowly slid out of contact with his, and towards the café window. Kieran, naturally, turned his head to see what the disruption was.

  
  


“Miss, is everything alright?”

  
  


**“** Marvelous…” She sounded harried, distracted. “It’s just… I was reminded of a prior engagement. I’m afraid I will have to cut our outing short. Please let me pay the check for your trouble.”

  
  


Relief and disappointment battled within Kieran’s head. He leaned back in his chair, and tried for a reassuring expression. “No, that’s quite alright. Don’t be late.”

“ **I’m truly sorry to have wasted your time** . Perhaps we can reschedule?  **I’d anticipate it.** ”

  
  


The falsities came off of her lips effortlessly, and the woman barely even batted an eye.

  
  
  


_Yes, she’s lying, but why?_ _What could he have possibly done, in so little time, to make her leave early?_ _No…_ Kieran was a trained officer. She was a puzzle, a puzzle that he could arrange and decipher; She really did have somewhere to be, but something seemed _off_. Her face was painted with rouge, sure - but did a dash of paranoia lie underneath?

  
  


Logical analysis, paired with the writhing skeptical feeling that had made its home in his gut, led Kieran to the conclusion that it would be best to end the possibility of any future encounters then and there.

  
  


“No need to indulge me, Miss. I get the feeling that you only remained this long out of obligation. Unfortunately, the feeling is mutual.” His cool eyes met hers. Underneath a stoic surface, they desperately tried to get a feel for the situation. 

  
  


Grayson looked quite serious, but nodded curtly.  **“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”**

  
  


Kieran forced his face to still, even though his muscles wanted to cringe at her words, to flinch at her feelings.  _ Or a lack thereof?  _

  
  


He only watched on as Rosa Grayson picked up her coat and made her way back onto the Ardhalis city streets, leaving behind a man’s cracked ego and a lipstick-stained coffee cup.

Kieran sighed, his breath heavy. It was thick with irritation, laced with more than a bit of regret. But, he could only stare at his now empty plate for so long. Did he come off as too harsh? He got up from his chair, and wandered over to the window, where Rosa Grayson was nowhere to be seen. 

_ Why would you have expected anything different? You did this _ . 

  
  


Kieran walked back to his table and slipped back into his chair, dejected. The  _ if _ s, the  _ maybe _ s, the possibilities swirling around inside his head were nothing but mirages, illusions brought to life by his imagination and aspirations. They weren’t real, and never would be.

  
  


_ Screw it _ . Kieran slid his plate to the side and pulled forward Miss Grayson’s cheesecake, which was barely touched. He was paying for it, after all. He had played the part of the gentleman, until he couldn’t take it anymore. Dignity and courteousness often reared against each other in Kieran’s head. It seemed that they could not peacefully coexist. 

Perhaps he was a bit blunt, but for a decade Kieran’s moral compass had swung astray but always remained faithful to one  _ modus operandi _ : in any earnest, significant situation, and in the event that any evasive tactics failed, Kieran White would tell the truth. Every time.

  
  


He would never again bear a secret, one that should be shared, but would be realized far too late. He would never again dig himself into a hole of desperate measures and false promises that everything was okay.

  
  


Kieran took a bite of the cake, savoring the creamy consistency and sweetness. 

  
  


He would have his cake, and eat it too.

  
  


The officer allowed his eyes to wander about the room, curious as to if the other stories unfolding around him were more fortunate than his own. In each of his few past visits to the establishment, there had seldom been open chairs at any given time. The building tended to reside at that happy medium where people would come and go, never having to wait for their seats.

  
  


He noticed the barista, lounging against the industrial french press, scratching at the pewter as he waited for a brew to finish. An old couple splitting a pastry up against the window. A man with a quill poised in his hand, parchments askew all over his table. A woman whose face was concealed by her unfurled newspaper. Another couple, sitting quite close to him, chatting enthusiastically. The man seemed confident, smelled of old money and privilege. He leaned over the table, raking his fingers through his short blond hair.

  
  


“Ah, yes, I can empathize completely.” He had the voice of a showman, as though his words were a gift for ears to behold. “I’m supposed to take over the Evans company once my parents are ready to retire. Of course,  **I’ve been working hard not to disappoint them.** ”

  
  


Kieran’s ability could be truly exasperating at times. Lies were as common as the cold; but to him, each iota of dishonesty was cancerous.

  
  


Kieran just wanted to leave. He pushed in his chair, and placed a generous amount of money on the table to cover his dues. He put his coat on slowly, taking in the café scene for a little longer. He wouldn’t have the means to come here again anytime soon, the expensive prices not suitable for a man of his standing to frequent.

  
  


The Evans man continued to speak. “Though, I can’t say they’ve been too pleased with me as of late. They’re broken records, both of them. All they care about is that I’m twenty eight,  **and still not married. It’s insane for them to expect me to have a family at this point!** ”

  
  


Kieran raised his eyebrows as he passed by their table.  _ Despicable. This lousy bastard is cheating on his wife.  _

  
  


His companion giggled, oblivious to the situation at hand. “Well, the time of year isn’t ideal for a lot of social interaction. The police have been everywhere, utterly suspicious. I guess it’s because the station’s…  _ anniversary _ is drawing near.”

  
  


“I suppose you’re right. You know, I respect the risks that policemen take everyday to protect our city, I really do. Once, I was shopping downtown, and some vagrant barged in and held the cashier at gunpoint!  **So of course, I immediately threw myself between the poor woman and that criminal. It was just like instinct, you know?** ”

_ I don’t care. _

  
  


The exuberant laughter from the pair’s table was nauseating. Kieran’s gloved hand was about to press into the café’s doorknob when the damn showman piped up.

_ I don’t care. _

His voice was its own form of Hell, obnoxiously articulate and clear. “Sir, If you’re leaving now, would you mind fetching my car? The lady and I will be on our way soon, and I couldn’t help but notice that a spot opened up out front.”

_ I don’t- _

Kieran turned around slowly, the tips of his ears burning. With an icy glare, he replied, “I’m sorry…” He let his jaw tense and his mouth split into an incredulous leer. “ _ Do I look like a carhop to you? _ ”

  
  


Evans almost looked shocked, for a split second. Then, his face became plastic once more. “My apologies, sir, the coat you’re wearing is similar to the uniform from my service. Carry on.” He turned back to his lady, and intended to carry on, as he had suggested. “Shame.  **I would’ve tipped him, too.** ”

  
  


The events of the afternoon had left Kieran with a confrontational attitude that he intended to put to use. He dropped his hand to his side, and cleared his throat. “Mr. Evans, right? It’s been a while. Please give your wife and children my regards.”

  
  


The man looked over at him, with a belittling expression. “I beg your pardon? Do I know you?”

  
  
  


“That might have been a bit presumptuous of me. Your name, sorry for catching it, sounded  _ so _ familiar.” Kieran set down his spoon. “Maybe it’s just one of those names? Or could I possibly recognize you from the APD when you and your family stopped by for the recent census?”

  
  


Mr. Evans and his family had likely been there - it was required by law. A shot in the dark, absolutely, but Kieran’s words left him flushed. He pulled out his chair and stood up, raising himself to his full height, like some kind of peacock trying to flaunt itself.

  
  


“Now who do you-”

  
  


The woman cut him off, a harsh edge in her voice. “Mr. Evans, wife and children? What is the meaning of this?”

  
  


“Don’t go jumping to such - such  _ atrocious conclusions.”  _ The man scoffed. “Why would you believe the fibs of a man you just met?”

  
  


_ The level of hypocrisy, radiating from a single person... _ Kieran was beyond irritated, but the man’s words anchored him.  _ Why was he meddling? _ But, what was done was done. He could at least finish the job. 

  
  


“If you will.” Kieran stepped forward to face the charlatan. He towered a good few inches above him, and used that to his advantage peering down upon the man. “From a brief education of maybe, five minutes, I’ve found you to be nothing but a liar to this poor woman. And, even though you’re such a human disgrace, I still find myself dedicating my life to protecting ungrateful cowards like you.” Kieran reached into his coat, pulling out his Precinct identification. “It’s just  _ instinct,  _ you know?”

  
  


The rage was imminent on Mr. Evan’s face. “Now, listen here-”

  
  


As fate would have it, Kieran looked over the man’s shoulder to see a familiar woman strolling down the sidewalk. Her tawny eyes, framed with dark lashes, seemed deep in thought, and she bore a heavy expression. However, when she glanced into the window, it shifted to one more suiting for an ecstatic puppy. 

_ Kym. _

  
  


She waved enthusiastically at the sight of Kieran. The look he flashed her was somewhat reminiscent of a helpless deer in the street, a plea for help. The message was received, and she gave a purposeful nod.

  
  


Mr. Evans continued to blaze through his spree of verbal slander, to the shock of a few of the other customers close by. The predicament had long since teetered into the realm of embarrassing.  _ “It’s filthy people like you that-” _

  
  


The bell over the café’s glass door gave a shrill yelp, and in walked the woman. She passed Mr. Evans and his date without exchanging a glance, and turned to Kieran.

  
  


Kym then raised her hand, and proceeded to deliver a clean slap across the side of his face. 

  
  


Before he could recover, she grabbed Kieran by his shirt collar, and began to hastily lead him towards the exit. On the way, Kieran reached into his pocket and slammed a handful of coins onto the counter in front of the barista, hopefully in lieu of an apology. Before the glass door could close on him, Kieran pulled himself into the room once more. 

“Have a lovely evening, Mr. Evans!”

.

.

.

  
  
  


Kym tugged him again, letting the café door slam shut. It wasn’t likely that either of them would set foot in there ever again.

  
  


Once they were safely out of view, Kieran raised his head, and laughed into the passing breeze. “I appreciate your help, Ladell, but was  _ slapping  _ really necessary?” 

  
  


He pressed his fingers to the new swell on his face, the slight sting of Kym’s palm lingering. Despite her small stature, her handprint had made a reasonable mark on Kieran’s cheek, and his jaw ached.

  
  


“Well, I suppose there were other methods, but from my experience, the best way to get out of a confrontational situation is to make your exit ambiguous and quick.” Kym shook out her short hair, which framed her face like streaks of navy ink. “Also, I’ve been behind on my  _ White-Whacking quota. _ Had to get one in.”

  
  


“Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last.”

  
  


“No, sir.”

  
  


As they rounded the corner, leaving Ardhalis’ commercial district, the pair spotted a little boy of maybe eleven or twelve. His wispy blonde hair was held in place by a brown cap pressed neatly on his head. Despite being weighed down by a satchel filled with what seemed to be newspapers, he stood up straight and his lively demeanor carried through into his words. What an ugly contrast it was.

  
  


“Only five cents!” He shouted, looking eagerly at each pedestrian who passed by. “Ten years retrospective on the Allendale Train Station Tragedy!”

  
  


_ How very familiar. _

  
  


Kieran stepped up to him, and held out a five-cent coin. “I’d like a copy, please.”

  
  


The boy looked thrilled to have a customer. “Thank you very much, sir!”

  
  


“No, thank you.” Kieran rejoined Kym, flipping through each delicate page of the volume. Kym locked eyes with Kieran, her eyes laced with worry. Kieran pulled his somber frown up into a smile, hoping to reassure his friend.

  
  


They walked in silence for a few moments before Kym piped up. “What were you doing, anyway, picking a fight with a random man at a café?”

“In all honesty, I was feeling especially vain today.”

  
  


“Of course you were. Tell me, did you go just to marvel at your reflection in the windows?

Kieran groaned. “I wasn’t meant to be sadly finishing off two slices of cheesecake on my own, as heavenly as that sounds. I happened to be on a date. “

  
  


“Oh?” Kym tried to sound collected, but it was a well-known fact that she often found entertainment in Kieran’s failed romantic conquests.

  
  


“She said she had to go, had forgotten about a prior engagement.”

  
  


“That’s bizarre. Maybe she really did?”

  
  


“No.” Kieran looked down at their feet, moving together in tandem. “No, she didn’t.”

  
  


“Oh.” Kym was one of the only people aware of Kieran’s ability. She had learned on accident, during a late night patrol months ago. The precinct had received word that a small-scale robbery was to take place at one of the foremost antique shops in the city. A lie that Kieran had miraculously caught off of the street made it clear that the front was a setup. In order to encourage Kym to take action, he had needed justification. She only believed him once they found the potential perpetrator on the other side of the city, sneaking into a completely irrelevant vicinity. 

Kym now trusted Kieran wholeheartedly. Kieran could only think of the day when he’d let her down.

  
  


“Where did you meet her?”

  
  


“Hawkes and I went out a couple of nights ago for drinks.” Kieran shrugged. “Will encouraged me. ‘Dating is a part of moving on,’ he says.”

  
  


“He should heed his own advice.” Kym snorted. 

  
  


“True, true.” Notwithstanding that  Will had only been acting out of kind intentions, being young and single in Ardhalis was seen as a disease by the older folk, something that must be cured. So Kieran played the part of eligible bachelor when necessary, time and time again. He would converse politely, pay the check, and walk the lady home, even when it was clear that his chances of happiness had been decimated at his own hand a long time ago.

  
  


“I asked her out to coffee and we made plans there in the pub. It was a bit of a whim, but I thought, could there be a possibility? Any glimmer of one?”

  
  


“A random girl?” Kym raised her eyebrows and nudged Kieran, causing him to stumble in good fun. “No wonder this was a failure. You didn’t know anything about her.”

  
  


“Well. Perhaps I should just date you then. Thoughts?” Kieran glanced at her, faux-suave demeanor intact.

  
  


“Would you be offended if I said that I’d rather be torn to shreds by the Tenth-Precinct canines on the other side of the city?”

  
  


“Likewise. Wait- I’d rather be a test subject for the new stun-guns our good friends in the Special Weapons Unit are developing.”

  
  


“Have you gone soft, White?” Kym was shaking, trying not to give into hysterics. “Good sir, perhaps I’d rather die.”

  
  


“Agreed.”

  
  


The two laughed, enjoying each other’s company, as always- their words fit together like puzzle pieces, their strides always falling into the same pace. 

  
  


Kym gently elbowed Kieran in the ribs. “Are you upset?”

  
  


He considered it. “...No.” 

  
  


It surprised Kieran to admit it. Once the sting of rejection had seeped out of his system, all that was left was a nonchalant numbness that he didn’t expect. He didn’t feel any sort of the bruising, festering feelings that he’d expected to come of such circumstances. With observing the absence of pain, he also felt himself note the absence of pleasure in any of his few dates that would have been deemed positive experiences. He found himself surprised.

  
  


“Hmm. Well, maybe it was just karma, you know?” Kym met his musing gaze.

  
  


Kieran’s veins filled with ice.  _ She couldn’t possibly be referring to… _

  
  


He turned to his partner. He tried to keep the edge out of his voice, and he stifled his breath as he responded.  _ “Karma _ , you say?”

  
  


“Yeah! Karma serving you, _and_ _Williame,_ for not inviting me to join you at the pub!” Kym punched her friend in the arm, feigning anger.

  
  


Kieran reprimanded himself silently. Kym had no idea of what had been gone and buried. Say she did, there would be no way she would  _ ever _ mention it. Kieran shook off his nerves, and tried to wash those feelings away. __

  
  


“Don’t play that game. If I remember correctly, last time we invited you out, you called us  _ lamentable drunkards _ . And that, my friend, was verbatim.”

  
  


“Well,  **it’s true!** Besides, people don’t drink to  _ drink _ . They drink to  _ socialize, _ don’t they? I’m your friend. So don’t leave me out next time.”

  
  


Kieran acknowledged her with a mock salute. “Sargeant Ladell, you have my word not to exclude you from my comrade and I’s future alcoholic escapades.”

  
  


“Kindly regarded. Now let’s get you home, Officer.”

.

.

.

  
  
  
  


Rosa Grayson was having a  _ terrible  _ night.

  
  


In her lacy white nightgown, she sat draped over her desk chair, the velvet upholstery sinking under her as she slouched further into it. Aside from the train wreck that was the afternoon, her evening business calls were getting quite tiresome. The only thing keeping her alert was the freshly brewed Cortado sitting within arm’s reach.

  
  


_“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what the predicament is._ For the thousandth time, I left the shipping directions with the subject you assigned this late this afternoon. Why must I speak so vehemently about this for you to believe me?”

  
  


The candle she had lit what seemed like lifetimes ago had slowly lost its fervor to burn; the wax was no longer dripping down steadily, in a way reminiscent of tears. It fell in thick and lazy beads, shriveling dry as soon as each hit the brass handle and base. 

  
  


“ _ Christ. _ That imbecile knows nothing of our…  _ operations _ . Send someone disposable to McTrevor.  _ Hell,  _ send one to the Apostle! But it’s his word against mine. You know that this dog and pony show wouldn’t have gotten off of the ground if not for big brother’s funds. And ever since he was offered as-” Her breath rattled as she inhaled. “Since he was offered as collateral, those funds have now fallen to me. I control them.  _ You need me. _ ”

  
  


_ Radio silence _ . Grayson checked the receiver, but there was no hint of life on the other end of the line, not even a crackle. Despite this, Rosa was satisfied enough. She was used to being subjected to verbal assault and slander on a daily basis. Even if she was being  _ ignored _ , her dwelling was finally quiet. She had sent her maids off hours ago. It had been a while since she had felt truly alone. It really was so base, to desire isolation. 

It wasn’t that simple.

Grayson perused her bookcase, and settled on an old record that hadn’t danced under the needle in a while. The volume was rather brooding and would do nothing to lift her spirits, but she had no desire to do so. Gently removing it from its cardboard casing, she fastened it into place on her phonograph. As the disk spun on its axis, a piano’s mysterious cords soon filled the room, followed by a violin’s sorrowful cries. Grayson lifted the candle off her desk, and savored its warmth. She closed her eyes, taking a deep, ruminative moment for herself. She was determining if it was worth waiting up for a response when a gloved hand emerged from the darkness behind her and clamped itself over her lips.

  
  


No scream, nor any sort of noise, would come to pass her lips. Thrashing like a fish out of water, she was steadied promptly by the figure behind her.

  
  


A disembodied voice, calm and uncharacteristically saccharine, broke the muffled silence. “Good Evening, Lady Grayson.”

  
  


Rosa strained, trying to turn around and see her capteur, but the grip on her was too strong. Then, steel met flesh, and she stumbled to the ground.

The agony in her side was met with an intense coughing fit. When her mouth was released from the stranger’s grasp, Grayson’s own hand took its place. Her lungs rebelled against each breath she tried to take, rejecting the oxygen. She pulled her palm away to find it covered with her own blood, revoltingly warm. She whirled around to see what seemed to be a woman clad in sable darkness, the majority of her features concealed by fabric and her own failing vision.

It was appalling to her, how she could be extinguished as easily as an insect under a shoe, a candlewick snuffed by two fingers. It seemed she had overestimated her value.

Lady Grayson quickly faded away, the size of the blood puddle spilling out from the wound in her midsection proliferating with every second that passed.

  
  


With movements almost feline, the intruder maneuvered around the growing crimson pool on the hardwood floors. Miraculously, the little heels of her tall leather boots did not emit any sound as she made her way to the window. She reached into her charcoal overcoat, retrieving a single flower. 

  
  


A hyacinth, fresh and ethereal in beauty. 

  
  


She dropped the blossom in her wake, crimson waste immediately beginning to nibble at its delicate purple petals.

  
  
  


_ “Greetings from the Leader. Please receive our regards.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to Ephemerys and Sophism.  
> If you haven't read PH yet, read it here: https://www.webtoons.com/en/mystery/purple-hyacinth/list?title_no=1621
> 
> If you are still here, thank you! I hope you've enjoyed my fic so far. Again, any feedback is appreciated, as this is a bit of a learning experience for me.
> 
> Sorry if this chapter started a bit slow, I had to do a lot of editing-- I found myself researching different coffee-making processes, then realized that it really wasn't all that important. Priorities...
> 
> I liked giving a little bit of Assassin Lauren at the end, though...


	3. Alea Iacta Est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was shorter than Kieran, the peak of her ruby hair barely meeting his chin. But she compensated for her size with the intense electricity that pulsed through her vicinity, the source of it a pair of vivid and golden eyes. He was about to die. So, why did his breath remain calm, and his pulse low?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: "the die has been cast.")_
> 
> _(The words Julius Caesar spoke to his army in 49 BCE as he led his army across the Rubicon and into battle.)_

Kieran glanced around his apartment with a careful eye. His inspections were a habit that he had never quite shaken after graduating from the Police Academy and moving off on his own. He sometimes missed having Will around, with his clean-freak tendencies and the music that he would constantly play from his recordbox, each note echoing around their small dormitory. Living alone had been a change from what he had experienced as a boy, a teenager, and a recruit. The walls of his flat did not extend far, but what the rooms lacked in quantity were, in his opinion, compensated for in quality. 

  
  


The walls were embellished with shelves, tastefully crammed with more books than Kieran could count, or would ever care to. His closet door and dresser drawers were closed neatly, concealing wrinkled casuals and spare uniforms. A coffee table stood at the foot of an upholstered couch. The sofa’s green cushioning had likely memorized Kieran’s shape as a result of his many nights spent browsing through his library or doing any light paperwork.

  
  


Compared to his living area, his room was quite plain. A bed was pressed into the corner against the room’s brick wall. The light comforter was drawn and straight, but Kieran knew that the sheets underneath were knotted and creased, carelessly neglected that morning. His desk faced the window. Dusk was starting to dim the glow of the sun, darkening its smooth, wooden surface.

  
  


Kieran couldn’t recall a time when feet had graced his carpets other than his own. None of his few close friends had ever visited, and his parents had been far off for a long time before he began renting. Other than drinks with Will, or his daytime outings with Kym, Kieran’s social life was nonexistent. It was a spectre that dwelled in his work, and the occasional book that was too irresistible to put down.

  
  


He would always have his drawings, though.

  
  


Kieran pulled out a sturdy leather volume from the closest shelf, the binding creased from hasty openings and closings on sleepless nights. He opened to a fresh page, which he noted to be near the back of the book. He set it on his desk, and let his newspaper drop onto the surface alongside it.

  
  


_Ten Years…_

  
  


Kieran exhaled. 

  
  


_And moving on? What a joke._

  
  


_Ten years, and I’ve done nothing to repent._

  
  


Each of his pencils, charcoal, graphite, or lead, was a friend. Each felt different in his palm’s embrace, had their own personalities and tendencies. He let his hand chase lines down the paper, scratching the pure surface with grit and grime. He switched to an ink pen with a full well. His streaks were of silk, eagerly kissing the page in rays of ardor and passion.

  
  


Kieran let his sentience drift elsewhere. He often was so collected, tightly strung like a marionette puppet, his limbs separate entities from his consciousness. Each time he created, the feeling of drifting away was rediscovered, a blissful high that couldn’t be recalled elsewhere. Every stroke he fashioned was real and raw and _right_. 

  
  


He finally pulled his pen away, and peered upon his creation with a logical eye. 

  
  


The profile of a boy, with dove white hair and a rumpled cap.

  
  


_Shit._

  
  


Pulling his hands back in shock, the delicate page revolted against its composer, slicing Kieran’s forefinger in his hasty movements. Hissing, he put his finger to his mouth, attempting to stanch the supple trickle of blood that had blossomed from the cut. Kieran had worked for too long on the leather compendium, which had long since evolved from a place of sketches and creation into something more. Staining any of his work, art or otherwise, would be bothersome. As for the pain, Kieran felt it was well-deserved. A punishment.

  
  


_I should tear this out…_

  
  


He let his fingers rest on where the page met the book’s binding. The stitches that bound the tome were so thin and fragile. It wouldn’t take much force to rip out the page, to crumple it, to shove it into the wastebasket or the bottom of a drawer, where it wouldn’t ever be found.

  
  


_I can’t do it._

  
  


_I won’t._

  
  


Kieran pulled the newspaper towards him. He scoured the paragraphs with a tentative eye for something, _anything._ He tore out some predetermined fragments: dates and photos that were unfamiliar, testaments that had resurfaced. He tacked them into the book, and wrote notes in the margins in thick black ink.

  
  


Kieran’s quest for answers had transcended beyond a desire, or even a need. It had become a lust.

  
  


He had been heavy handed with the ink that night, the bold arcs and strokes still shimmering with moisture. Kieran left the book open on his desk to dry. Ink or blood would be fatal to his work. The boy’s depiction was framed with the new clippings and notes but remained untouched. 

  
  


Kieran thought to himself that he ought to get to sleep. It was past midnight, and with how his sleep schedule had been as of late...

  
  


His thoughts of slumber were interrupted by the shrieking of his landline phone. Dashing to it, he lifted the cords and answered. “Hello? This is Officer White.”

  
  


“An emergency? What happened?”

  
  


“45 Whiteriver Street? Yes. I’ll be there.”

  
  


He charged into his room, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Throwing off his casual wear, he pulled on his navy coat and sturdy black boots that smelled of soap and petrichor. Reaching behind his head, he let his fingers run through his raven hair, before tugging the thin white tie holding it back. It released its hold gently, the bow unraveling from its tight knot. Kieran set it on his dresser, his eyes drifting to the wider, golden ribbon resting on the dresser’s edge. 

  
  


The flaxen fabric was woven with pain and regrets.

  
  


Sighing, he picked the tie up, and gathered his dark locks into a bun at the nape of his neck. He tied the knot tight and the two spare ends dangled somberly, stroking his spine and shoulders. It whispered to his ears, words of longing and hollow hope.

  
  


_Remember me, stranger?_

  
  


Kieran let the door to his flat slam closed, the echoing of consequence creating an ambience long after he took to the city streets.

.

.

.

  
  


_Assassins_ , they had told him.

  
  


For a decade, they had terrorized the city of Ardhalis.

  
  


Terrorists. Thieves. Killers.

  
  


All united under a leader, who had yet to be seen.

  
  


_The Phantom Scythe._ They had claimed yet another victim that night.

  
  


More blood on his hands, all the better.

.

.

.

  
  


“Will! Kym! You were called in as backup, too?”

  
  


Kieran jogged up to two familiar figures, both clad in their APD uniforms. Kym and Will were fixed under a streetlamp, discussing the situation with tense postures. The lamplight illuminated the brassy APD badges fixed onto their sleeves, the crown and stag displayed glaring outwardly at the few passersby.

  
  


“Seems that way. Must be because we all live pretty close to here. A little spooky, honestly, that this could’ve happened while we slept.” Will tipped his mask up in greeting, revealing a pair of pale blue eyes. They were alert, the skin underneath them mottled grey from exhaustion. Nonetheless, a warmth rose through, a sort of contentment in lieu of situational dread.

  
  


Kym nodded, agreeing with Will, but released a sigh. “I can’t believe they called us in on our day off, though. The second redeye in a week! And for a simple homicide? Just because it happens to be in our Precinct!”

  
  


Any pent up exhaustion that Will suppressed seemed to burst upwards any time the Sergeant opened her mouth. “Nobody knows the area better than we do. If the culprit is still somewhere around here, we have the best chance of finding them-”

  
  


“I know. Shut up, Lieutenant.”

  
  


Kym and Will were a lot to handle together. They were each corrosive chemicals that shouldn’t have mixed, but did nonetheless. Kieran cleared his throat, and attempted to change the subject to the issue at hand. “All I was told is that there was a murder, and the culprit escaped.”

  
  


William nodded in agreement, and began to trudge towards the area of crime. “Detective March is coming with backup as we speak. The officers that were on duty are all busy with an armed robbery on the other side of town. The neighbors of-”

  
  


Lieutenant Hawkes’ assessment was cut short by a sudden scream coming from the address of interest. A woman, dressed in only a slip and a maid’s apron, flew out the door. Her bare feet slapped against the cobblestone, her sheer terror propelling her into the city street without bothering to close the heavy door of the building.

  
  


“HELP!” She screamed. Her voice was laced with fright, and she careened into Will. “Please! _Please, the Lady, she’s-_ ”

  
  


Will attempted to steady the woman. “Miss, try to stay calm. You’re safe now.” She shuddered, sobbing into the blonde’s coat. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  
  


“I w-was having trouble sleeping, but then I heard sounds coming from the Lady’s room! I w-went to make sure everything was alright, but then I saw the b-blood… S-So much blood…” The lady’s voice cracked, hysterically stumbling over her words. She buried her face further into the Lieutenant’s jacket. “There was a limp hand sticking out of the doorframe, but I just… I just ran away! I was so scared!”

  
  


“Okay… and you believe that the hand belonged to Lady Grayson?”

  
  


Kieran felt as if the entirety of his blood supply was being siphoned from his body, leaving behind a dry husk of a man, chock full of dread and questions. 

  
  


_Lady Grayson?_

  
  


_Oh god… Why was my date assassinated?_

  
  


“Lieutenant Hawkes!” With hair the color of embers and a crimson coat, the approaching man almost mimicked the lamplight, which made the scar peeking out from under his mask appear quite vivid. He was flanked by a handful of other members of the Precinct, who were rubbing the drowsiness out of their eyes and becoming alert. “What’s going on here?”

  
  


“Detective March! Good to see you. We were called in about the murder of Rosa Grayson. We were just about to search the house-”

  
  


_BANG!_

  
  


A gunshot rang out from behind the group’s backs, all of them whirling around to face the noise in unison. William pulled Grayson’s (now unemployed, Kieran supposed) maid back into the nearby house. “Miss, get inside, and stay away from the windows!”

  
  


Once she was concealed, the Lieutenant began to bark orders. Normally quite the humble man, Will was known in the Precinct for being able to rise beyond his stature and experience to command others; it was what ended up winning him his promotion a few months prior. “Detective March, protect the witnesses!” He gestured to Kym and Kieran, beginning his pursuit as he shouted. “Sargeant, Officer, come with me!”

  
  


The three of them charged forward, pistols in hand, to the complex across the street. Another gunshot rang out, the thunderclap of compressed air accompanied by a lightning flash in one of the building’s windows.

  
  


The officers focused on the target, the eye of the incoming storm. From the corner of his eye, Kieran spotted a dark blur that seemed to hop out of a window on the house’s side, and began to ascend to the roof. 

  
  


“Over there! Someone just escaped through the windows!”

  
  


He took off, two officers following in his footsteps. He could hear Will’s hoarse voice calling after him. “Kieran! Wait!”

  
  


The tones in which Will had reprimanded Kieran had remained unchanged since their days together at the Academy, or even since times before. He was immune now, and could block it out when he desired.

  
  


Kieran knew each alcove and window along the street, the ins and outs of the architecture. Instead of pushing forward, he began to push up, pulling himself onto the rooftop.

  
  


Having left behind his partners, Kieran knew he was alone in his pursuit atop the Ardhalis skyline. The shadow was on the building ahead, jumping over the chimney stack, a cloak leaving a fluttering trail behind.

  
  


_Damn, this one’s actually pretty fast._

  
  


They jumped from one edifice to the next, the gap of pursuit widening and shortening between them as they pivoted and climbed. The figure suddenly stopped at the edge of a building, unbelievably steady. She glanced back at him, revealing a feminine head of vermillion hair and a mouth concealed by a black cloth. 

  
  


The woman raised her arms from her sides in a taunting sort of gesture, and proceeded to dive off of the edge. Her cloak fluttered behind her back, the dark wings of a raven who would fall, but never fly.

To jump from a building would be foolish! But oh, Kieran could do foolish. Two could play at that game.

  
  


Kieran let himself drop into the abyss, moments behind his prey. Hitting the cobblestone sent shocks through his legs, which continued to charge forward, loyal as they were. He noted that they had arrived in the West End of the residential district, where the apartments and flats gradually became less extravagant and more humble. The shadow sprinted across the plaza, and down a dark alleyway with a small walkway.

  
  


Kieran grinned to himself, the fire burning in his lungs quenched and satisied by her choice. _Dead end,_ he recalled. _I’ll need to call backup..._

  
  


Pursuing the figure, he caught up to her as she began her ascent up the side of the building. With familiarity came an advantage, and Kieran swung over the other side of the alcove, kicking the criminal’s grip. She plummeted to the ground, landing square on her back. Perhaps it was the frigid night air, or the undiluted adrenaline coursing through his system, but the entire chase seemed almost autoscopic, like a fever dream that he would wake up from, and remember nothing at all. But all dreams come to an end, and Kieran’s ended with the tearing of flesh against freezing metal. He hit the ground with a thud, noting that his right forearm had been sliced from top to bottom, the wound already beginning to warm and pulse. He knew this was real, all too real.

  
  


In the corner of his eye, a passing view of steel planted an even greater feeling of dread inside his chest. His gun was across the alley, far out of arm’s reach. But he had to act fast.

  
  


Shadow or spectre, the figure evaded Kieran’s attempts at capture with relative ease. She seemed to fly over Kieran, avoiding a leg sweep and dodging his punches. She caught his next fist in her palm, and used his momentum to slam him into the wall nearby.

  
  


_Crap. I’m unarmed, and at a disadvantage. At this rate, I’m dead._

  
  


Kieran whirled around for the second act, only to be met in the chest with the toe of a leather boot. A sharp pain above his eyebrow followed soon after. The vermillion stream quickly greased his mask, causing it to flutter to ground, a simple peace of paper. The stained red disguise lay limp on the cobblestone, as helpless as its master on which it gazed. 

  
  


Kieran was pinned, a sturdy heel furrowed underneath his ribcage. Its owner leaned forward, her face frozen in shock. Her dagger teased his Adam’s apple, the point just pricking into his skin. Whatever had been concealing her lower face had fallen to lie on her collar, her jaw visibly clenched in thought. The white fabric of her blouse, beaten and stained with reds from rain and blood, contrasted from the deep neckline’s sloping black laces and her cloak. It creased as she held the officer down, strength within each of her motions. 

She was shorter than Kieran, the peak of her ruby hair barely meeting his chin. But she compensated for her size with the intense electricity that pulsed through her vicinity, the source of it a pair of vivid and golden eyes. He was about to die. So, why did his breath remain calm, and his pulse low?

  
  


The pair were frozen, in time, in place. 

  
  


_Why won’t you move?_

  
  


_You could kill me. Right now._

  
  


_Why do you hesitate?_

  
  


If only he had known. Then everything would’ve been different.

.

.

.

  
  


From that stupefaction Kieran regained his footing. He pushed himself forward, causing the woman to lose her balance. Her blade nicked the base of his neck, a trail of sting following the cool metal. He returned the favor in the form of a roundhouse kick, knocking the knife out of her grasp. He kicked her to the ground without mercy where she landed with her back open facing the sky. 

  
  


Kieran pounced, retrieving cuffs from his jacket. Just as in training, he restrained her with the metal shackles, locking her body in place. Kieran considered it a gift that his gun was now nearby. He picked it up hastily, while the opportunity presented itself.

  
  


He looked down at his quarry, who remained utterly silent. Pressing his gun into the base of her head, he began to speak. “APD. You have the right to remain silent.”

  
  


Readjusting his position over his prisoner, Kieran surveyed the area, estimating how long it would take to bring her back to the station. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  
  


From his position on top of her back, Kieran could feel that the woman’s breaths were slow and calculated, almost mechanical. Her skin was cool to the touch despite the chase. 

  
  


“You have the right to an attorney. The proceedings will be discussed back at the Eleventh Precinct.”

  
  


The captured woman then let out a chuckle, her voice deep and ragged from the chase. Kieran tightened his grip on her wrists.

  
  


“Is something funny _?_ ”

  
  


“Not at all, Officer.” She spoke in a relaxed, languid manner, as though she was at ease in her confinement. Her face remained devoid of emotion, a blank slate that refracted the dusk and lamplight. “Just know that despite your kindhearted intentions, I won’t be sticking around for long.”

  
  


“You just murdered someone. There’s a special place in Hell for killers like you. Rest assured your sentence will be extensive.” Kieran prodded her head with his gun. “It’s only justice,” He drawled.

  
  


“Officer, trust me when I say I have had my fair share of experiences like these.” She twisted her neck and turned to look up at him. “You won’t be pulling that trigger.”

  
  
  


Kieran pressed her face back into the ground. “I’m a police officer, _darling._ I’ve been trained to shoot when necessary. Do. Not. Move.”

  
  


“And I’m an assassin, _dear.”_ Kieran froze. “I can recognize murderous intentions when I see them. I know you won’t be putting a bullet through my head. Not tonight.”

  
  


The initial frigid shock he had felt began to melt into liquid fury. It warmed Kieran from the core, and then began to scald him, blistering his throat and lungs. “So you’re with the _Phantom Scythe,_ then?”

  
  


**“No, Officer.”**

  
  


“I see. Then I guess I really won’t be killing you tonight. You’re more valuable alive than dead.”

  
  


Leaning down, he brushed a red strand of hair away from his captive’s ears. He tentatively whispered, “So where’s your leader?”

  
  


“Bold of you to presume me to be an underling. **I only answer to myself.** ”

  
  


“Hmm.” Kieran slowly lowered his transceiver from his lips, where he hadn’t realized he had been letting it dangle idly. “Miss, I really just want to chat.”

  
  


“Chat, you say?”

  
  


“You heard me.” The timbre of Kieran’s voice adjusted as if to prevent the alley walls and windows from overhearing his words. “I want to force every last bit of your knowledge of the Phantom Scythe out of you. I want to at least reap that before I send you to rot in jail, where you belong.”

  
  


The woman turned her head to the side, her eyes molten pools of liquid gold frothing with a sort of sedated humor. Her mouth was slack, her lips slightly parted as she gazed up at her capteur. “Quite the presumptuous one, aren’t you? What makes you think I have the answers you seek?”

  
  


“I know exactly who you are.”

  
  


“Ha!” His intense gaze was met with one of her own. Despite her position, she still emanated a raw confidence. “You’re a brazen man. **I’m not a part of the Phantom Scythe.** ”

  
  


“I’m the brazen one here? Two kills, across the street from each other. And don’t forget that you’re leaving witnesses behind. The city has seen worse amateurs, _assassin._ ”

  
  


**“Quite the contrary. I found my spree to be quite efficient.”**

  
  


“Not likely. I’ll bet that facing justice will be the first good idea you’ve ever had.”

  
  


“Honestly, the thought never crossed my mind. I’ve never been captured, **much less defeated.** ”

  
  


“Lies again. You’ve been bested before. And, you have again, tonight. ” Kieran raised his radio, finished talking to his enemy. “Don’t worry though. I’m sure there will be plenty of people behind bars that would _savor_ the tales of your invincibility.”

  
  


“Cheeky, officer. I like that.”

  
  


“Thanks for noticing, dear. But I don’t long for your approval.” Kieran couldn’t dispute the terrifying oddness of his captive. The blood coating her fingers and tainting her sleeves and cheek brought no tremor to her voice, and she betrayed no reaction to the crimson fluid seeping from Kieran’s arm into the fabric of her cloak. Her indifference to her crimes was nauseating. Turning her in would be somewhat cathartic.

  
  


“I _vowed_ to find your leader, and to kill him. I don’t care who you think I am. You have no idea what I am capable of, and how far I am willing to go.”

  
  


She raised her eyebrows. “So this goes beyond occupational responsibility, then?”

  
  


Kieran swallowed, his throat tightening.

  
  


**“I’m sure all of your fellow police officers despise the leader** , but from you, it's especially potent. This is personal.”

  
  


_Stop. Shut up._

  
  


“Who was taken from you, officer? A family member? A lover? A friend? Or someone else?”

  
  


_Enough._

  
  


“That’s why you are how you are today, isn’t it? Officer?”

  
  


_I was careless. Too careless._

  
  


Kieran’s finger was poised on the radio button, but he couldn’t seem to press down. The assassin spoke up once more. “You’re not the only one that shares your goal, and likely not the only one with the same motives.”

  
  


“Don’t pretend you know anything of my motivations,” Kieran spat.

  
  


“The APD has no chance of catching the leader. Not even the assassins have a clue to where he is. I’m no exception. Which makes it hard for me to kill him.”

  
  


_Kill him?_

  
  


Kieran considered this. She had told the truth. “This is ridiculous. I’m turning you in. You’re a criminal, whether you want to bring the leader down or not.”

  
  


“I meant what I said. If you really want to keep your _promise_ , I will be your best asset.”

  
  


“You think I would associate with the likes of you? Give me some credit, darling.”

  
  


The assassin shook her head. “As much as I trust my own abilities, I’m not naive enough to believe I could track him down alone. I need an assistant, someone to feed me information and alibis-”

  
  


“How dare you assume that I would be your little- your little pet?” Kieran spat. 

  
  


“Pet?” A musing grin took root and lingered on her face, her lips slightly pursed in contemplation. “I was thinking more along the lines of _subordinate_.”

  
  


“How could you-”

  
  


“You’re a police officer, and I’m an assassin. I’m well aware. But if we pool our resources, we might actually have a shot at finding the leader. This is from a strategic point of view. We can work him from both sides of the law.”

  
  


Kieran dwelled on this, and immediately was assaulted with guilt and shame. How could he even _consider_ such an agreement?

  
  


“I should be insulted that you thought there was even a _chance_ that I would ever associate with you.” Kieran used the barrel of his gun, prodding her head back to the ground. He could care less about scuffing up her porcelain face. “I’ve seen people like you kill men, women, and children, without even a shred of remorse. Your kind- you’re the worst types of people.”

  
  


Keeping a firm hold on her cuffs, Kieran exhaled. He was so tired, so weary of it all. He let his voice drop, his eyes cobalt pools of seething detestation. 

  
  


“Tell me darling, you are still a person, aren’t you?”

  
  


Her earlier comments had left fissures in his demeanor, undiluted honesty seeping through the wounds. There was something about this woman that he loathed. She smirked up at him, the smile on her lips so subtle, a visual whisper amidst the ongoing symphony. A scarlet droplet fell from the gash above Kieran’s eye and onto her cheek. The liquid splattered onto her face, taunting her eyelashes, but she didn’t blink. The spot remained there, a rose petal lying softly on an ivory surface.

  
  


The assassin was quiet, seemingly contemplating his words. “Considering-”

  
  


“Save your words for the judge. Don’t bother wasting your voice.”

  
  


“Why, I thought you wanted to talk?” 

  
  


“You’re cuffed, with a gun pointed to your head. Show a little humility, won’t you?”  
  


“Humility?” The woman enunciated slowly, as if the word was new on her tongue. “Don’t insult me, officer. But you’re not entirely incorrect."

  
  


The woman raised her hands to level with her shoulders, spreading her fingers, in a slow gesture of defiance. The shackles that had previously bound her were dangling limply from her right wrist.

  
  


She rolled onto her back, and all Kieran caught was the edges of her lips quirked up in the beginnings of a smile that hinted at rebellion. She pushed her head up off of the cement swiftly, her forehead hitting Kieran square in the nose.

  
  


His face went numb, his eyes watering. The woman slipped out from beneath him, wrapping her leg over his in some sort of maneuver which proved successful. In a matter of seconds, Kieran White was pinned defenseless. The assassin hovered over him, her arms pressed into his biceps, her fingers pushing through his muscles.

  
  


The woman’s eyes were crueler than any blade in her possession, pairing down and examining each part of Kieran’s face like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. She took two of her fingers, and pressed them deep into Kieran’s windpipe. The pressure made breathing a chore, and Kieran gasped as he raised his chin, struggling to open his airway.

  
  


The woman was immune to his struggling, desensitized to his suffering. She let her eyes bore into his, an unsettling calm gracing her features. “ _We aren’t people._ I kill without hesitation. I do what must be done. I do it succinctly. **And, I have no regrets.** ”

  
  


Any advantage that Kieran held had evaporated. He was going to die, but he wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t plead. He wouldn’t pray. His death would be the fault of his own weaknesses alone. He deserved what was to come.

  
  


The woman’s long hair tickled his forehead as she spoke. “I’d like you to consider this. I saw your _demonstration_ at the cafe earlier.”

  
  


Kieran wheezed, forcing air down despite the looming threat of suffocation.

  
  


“I know that you’re a human polygraph, not that you do much to hide it. I’m being honest with you. So, _read my lips._ ”

  
  


_She had figured that much out?_

  
  


_And she believed it?_

  
  


“We both have the same objective. So, by combining our forces, we can achieve it. I can provide you with information on the Phantom Scythe’s operations that no police officer could ever get their hands on.”

  
  


“You can give me that same information on the Police Department, or in the… _unlikely_ event that your peers find anything. And if anything goes wrong, you’ll provide me with an alibi.”

  
  


Kieran stopped struggling, and submitted to the woman’s grip. There was no way out of the predicament he had fallen into. His eyes narrowed, and he let his ears become attentive.

  
  


“I’m sure that your intuition would be of use. Even if it doesn’t give us the right answers, we can at least cross off the wrong ones.”

“You will help me find the leader. Or, at least consider it, won’t you?”

  
  


Kieran grinded his teeth. He wouldn’t say anything else to her, he wouldn’t utter a single word. He owed himself at least that much.

“Your considerations mean a lot to me. So, you’ll walk free tonight. I’m going to leave. Give you a day or so to think.”

  
  


_Was this supposed to be courtesy?_

  
  


“If you’re interested, I’ll stop by the bridge at midnight tomorrow.”

  
  


The assassin slipped off of Kieran, the absence of her lithe force leaving him gasping for air. She retrieved her blade, and began to wipe it on her cloak as she strolled towards the end of the alley.

  
  


Kieran struggled to prop himself up against the wall, his lungs desperately clawing for breath, his palms digging into the gravel beneath him. He gained his voice back right as the assassin was about to round the corner and vanish from his sight.

  
  


“Wouldn’t it be easier to turn me in? To damn me?”

  
  


The woman turned, surveying him with an amused expression on her face. For the first time in their fated encounter, she let her face split into a full smile, her lips drawn to reveal her teeth, her eyes glowing with a sort of satisfaction. 

  
  


“Officer, why would I kill you, when you have just what I need?”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to Ephemerys and Sophism.  
> If you haven't read PH yet, read it here: https://www.webtoons.com/en/mystery/purple-hyacinth/list?title_no=1621
> 
> I've never written so much dialogue in my life...
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I promise this will start to take its own course in due time. As always, I love hearing any thoughts or criticisms you may have. Feel free to leave em in the comments section. <3


	4. Forma bonum fragile est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kieran could consider this a nightmare, one that had somehow transcended his mind’s boundaries and found him in flesh and soul. Something that could be left behind in the deceitful comforts of his bedsheets. He still had a pulse and air to breathe. He could forget the assassin, with her golden eyes and remote ambition.
> 
> He wouldn’t ponder the murderous enigma. Not for a moment more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: all that is fair must fade.)_

An eternity passed with the zeal of a minute as Kieran White lay alone in the alley.

  
  


He was painted crimson like an abstract, twisted work of art. The blood trickling from above his eye had begun to flow in a concentrated stream down his cheek, a striking tear born from pain and panic. He was not dead, as he had anticipated.

  
  


As he stood and brushed the filth from his coat, his body protested with even the slightest movements. Aside from his new injuries, his muscles had been exhausted and burnt out, pistons that had fired into a state of misuse. The shades of discomfort were evident in ways that rushed over his skin in waves and seeped into his bones.

  
  


He picked up his mask from where it had fallen on the cobblestone, the stained white fabric wilted and weak, like a broken butterfly. He fumbled with his transceiver, finally pressing down on the button.

  
  


Kieran could consider this a nightmare, one that had somehow transcended his mind’s boundaries and found him in flesh and soul. Something that could be left behind in the deceitful comforts of his bedsheets. He still had a pulse and air to breathe. He could forget the assassin, with her golden eyes and remote ambition.

  
  


He wouldn’t ponder the murderous enigma. Not for a moment more.

  
  


“Officer White, here.” His voice was hoarse and raw, and the spot where the assassin had thrusted her fingers carried an ache that he suspected would linger for a long while. “I have lost the target.”

.

.

.

  
  


The peaceful lull of Whiteriver Street had been replaced with the wailing of sirens. Each uniformed individual cast an ominous shadow from their positions, their forms elongated and warped against the walls of each building on the block.

  
  


Kieran stumbled past an ambulance. The air took on an unsolicited chill as he observed two paramedics loading a linen-cloaked gurney onto the vehicle, a long and familiar lock of blonde hair cascading lifelessly over its edge.

  
  


Kym had been reclined against one of the APD cars, fidgeting absentmindedly with the hem of her uniform, when she spotted him. 

  
  


“Kieran!” She charged over to her friend, grabbing his collar and meeting his eyes. “What happened?” 

  
  


_“_ I lost her.”

  
  


“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just... happy you’re alive.”

  
  


“Of course I’m alive… _?”_

  
  


As Kym quickly caught sight of his wounds, her concern took a turn into the realm of exasperation. _“Christ,_ Kieran, you’ve bled all over yourself.”

  
  


“I’m fine.”

  
  


“Like hell you are! Let me grab some supplies-”

“Kym, I swear, I’m fine.”

  
  


She furrowed her brow, pounding Kieran with an apprehensive glare. “When will you swallow your pride and let other people help you for once?”

  
  


“I’m sorry.” He swallowed. “It's just been a long night. I wanted to bring it up before, but Lady Grayson… she was the one I met up with this afternoon... And you did help me out there, don’t forget- _”_

  
  


_“Kieran, shut your mouth.”_ Kym grabbed his shoulders, her fingers pressing into his coat and tense frame. “Seriously, are you okay? You should probably tell Hermann about that, or even March. They’ll want a report of the afternoon.”

  
  


“That’s true. I’ll see when Hermann will be available.” Kieran was already dreading the occasion.

  
  


“Will and I can come with you. We need to report back also...” A mischievous expression crept onto her face. “And I’m sure that _Daddy Sinclair_ would love to hear the details from you next time he stops by the Precinct!”

  
  


“For the life of me, I beg you to stop calling him that. He’s not my father.”

  
  


Kym rolled her eyes. “But he likes you! _A lot!_ It’s practically nepotism.”

  
  


“Whatever you say, Ladell. Let’s head over.”

  
  


Will emerged from Grayson’s residence on the other end of the street, and made a beeline towards his friends. “Kieran? What happened? You look like hell.”

  
  


Kym nodded at Will, then turned back to Kieran. “So you fought her, then?” 

“I wounded her, but not enough to slow her down.”

  
  


_“Her?_ You caught her?”

  
  


“She escaped me. I had her, but...” He glared at the cobblestone beneath him, biting his lip in frustration.

  
  


“What’s surprising is that you escaped _her.”_

  
  


Kieran looked up at Kym. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  
  


His partners had grave looks on their faces. Will seemed to dodge the question. “Could you describe her?”

  
  


“Female, shorter than me by a few inches. Slim, but definitely strong. Black cloak or jacket, leather boots, some sort of lower-face mask. Early-mid twenties, I’d guess? She had knives. A lot of knives.”

  
  


Will seemed shocked. _“Remarkable!_ Captain Hermann is waiting at the Second Crime Scene for you to report. But we should clean you up first...”

  
  


“The hell is Hermann doing here?” Kieran sighed. 

  
  


“He’s the _captain,_ of course he’s here. I get why-”

  
  


“ _No._ I need to be there _now._ Let’s go.”

  
  


“At least take these wraps.” Kym retrieved a roll of bandage from her jacket, and shoved it into Kieran’s arms.

  
  


Will cleared his throat. “It’s probably for the best that he treats himself, Ladell. I’m no surgeon, and last time you treated my wounds, you fed me some weird tea that gave me the _runs_ for a week! You’d probably just as well kill the man.”

  
  


“What did you say, you _twat?_ ”

  
  


As the two bickered, Kieran rolled up his sleeve and haphazardly wrapped the gauze around his bare arm. The blood on his head had begun to clot, so he wiped the sticky excess with his sleeve and left the cut to face the night air. “Come on, now. I would’ve bled to death if I waited for you two morons.”

  
  


Kym and Will glanced at him with surprise, as if they had forgotten his presence. Will surveyed Kieran’s sloppy handiwork and shook his head. “You should really get some rest first, White. I don’t think you understand who you just fought.”

  
  


“An assassin from the Phantom Scythe. _Trust me, I’m well aware.”_ Kieran’s words were spiked with vexation. They were practically treating him like a child.

  
  


Kym’s face, normally rounded in joy, had become tense and angular. It was very out of character for her. “Not just any assassin. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  
  


Kieran smiled at his friend, elbowing her playfully. She didn’t reciprocate the gesture. “What do you mean?”

  
"

Will was facing the house, but Kieran could sense his unreadable expression from his stoic posture. “Come on. See for yourself.”

  
  


Kym fixed Kieran with a gaze. “Did you see her face, at least?”

  
  


_Vermillion locks, skin like the moon’s surface, fierce eyes that held the opulent values of liquid gold…_

  
  


"... No."

  
  


And so, Kieran had broken his ten-year lying fast. 

  
  


And he was _appalled_ by it.

  
  


But, when that first drop of dishonesty rolled past his lips, Kieran found that he had been starving all along. But perhaps he was just a glutton for prevarication.

.

.

.

  
  


“This is quite the apartment, isn’t it?”

  
  


“Kieran, one man owns this whole building.” Will took the lead as he grasped the doorknob of the manor.

  
  


“Oh.” Kieran shook his head in disbelief. Whiteriver Street was known to hold outrageous prices, even for a single room. “Well, then.”

  
  


The mansion was populated with voices, but had a sedated feel, quiet despite the noises. As the trio climbed the stairs and entered a room marked with yellow tape, the metallic smell of carnage progressed from evident to nauseating. The room, and the house itself, practically screamed of luxury. Expensive chairs and a tabletop were turned on their sides, and the opulent wallpaper was sliced and butchered with what seemed to be bullet holes. March and one of his detectives were perched over a broken body, two vultures inspecting their prey. A figure stood in front of the bay window at the center of the parlor, observing the proceedings. The light from the sirens broke past the glass and stained his silhouette with shades of red and black.

  
  


He nodded to the three officers as they entered. “Lieutenant.”

  
  


Will bowed his head in respect. “Captain Hermann! Officer White is back.”

  
  


Hermann rubbed his temples. It was as if Kieran’s very presence was the cause of some sort of cacophony, audible only to him. “Officer White, it’s about time. Report.”

  
  


“The assassin escaped.” Kieran grit his teeth, hating how the words tasted in his mouth. “I and two other officers were in pursuit, but they were soon outpaced. I pursued her for as long as I could, and engaged her in a fight before losing her as well.”

  
  


Will added on. _“However,_ Officer White did get close enough to determine that the assassin was, in fact, a woman. Average height, slim, early-mid twenties.”

  
  


Will had always stuck up for Kieran. But with Hermann, he was at the depths of a hole that couldn’t be dug out of. He was practically sprawled under the Captain’s boot at any given moment, the heavy sole pressing down on his face invariably.

  
  


“Impressive. I’m pleasantly surprised, White.” His words were coated with a toxic sort of sweetness that made Kieran’s teeth hurt. But he only nodded, accepting the candy. It would be forced down his throat either way.

  
  


“So… What happened here?” Kieran selected his words carefully, knowing full well that any misstep on his part was to be anticipated.

  
  


“Ah, yes. Ladell? Hawkes?”

  
  


Kym looked up from the macabre scene. “Robert de La Rocca. Male, forty years old. He was a rich merchant and owned large shares in the royal navy’s shipyards, the main source of his fortune. His influence on the shipping market was… _considerable,_ to say the least.”

  
  


So the man was a monopoly- the powerful pawn now lay crumpled on his own carpets, his white dress shirt torn and stained around his back and jugular with a vicious accuracy. 

  
  


“Much like the late Lady Grayson across the street, he was known to have affluence over Ardhalis’s economy, and connections with the royal family. It’s no surprise that the Phantom Scythe targeted them both.”

  
  


Will nodded in agreement. “But it’s still unusual, since they both recently denounced the public monarchy.”

  
  


Kieran considered this. The lackluster lady he had sat across from that afternoon didn’t seem to be the type to rebel against society, especially out of the blue. “Could it have been to save their own skins? To declare some sort of paradigm shift?”

  
  


“Nobody really knows. All that’s for sure is that no one supporting the royals is safe.”

  
  


“But we’ve known that. The Phantom Scythe has always targeted the Citadel’s ruling family. The Aevasthers have never been safe, especially not their boy. Not since they claimed the crown.”

  
  


March began to unpack his briefcase in front of them, revealing a bag containing what seemed to be a spare bullet. “Good assumption, but forensics found more. De la Rocca appears to have fought back before the assassin killed him. The gunshot you all heard was from his weapon.”

  
  


Kieran began to pace the room, old habits taking root. “That would make sense. As near as I could tell, the assassin’s cloak was stocked with daggers, but not any sort of gun. She didn’t have any sort of holster, either. She probably broke into the mansion through a window. He fell right into her trap.”

  
  


A familiar rush began to fill him, and his eyes hungrily scanned the room. “She must have expected that de la Rocca would carry a gun. He tried to defend himself, but missed.” His brain was moving at light speed, these deductions so welcome and familiar. He scanned the body, limp and lifeless, laying on its side with its legs splayed. “Probably because he was trying to escape at the same time, seeing as he seemed to collide with the desk.”

  
  


_It all makes sense, just look at his position!_ “If he was running, as I suspect, that would explain the wound on his back, wouldn’t it? He must’ve turned around, attempted to shoot the assassin again, which is when that snake finished the job by slitting his throat… Then escaping through the window, which is when I spotted her.”

  
  


Grace Riverhood was the idol of the Forensic Unit. Not much could get past her in a crime scene. But in that moment, she looked up at Kieran with wide eyes, as though he was vying for her job.

  
  


March nodded in approval. “Impressive deductions, White.”

  
  


Kieran let a grin start to creep onto his face when he felt the Captain’s hand plant itself on his shoulder. “If I were you, I’d leave the investigating to the detectives, _Officer_ White.”

  
  


One word carried so much meaning, and yet was hollow, with none at all.

  
  


Oblivious to the tension, March began to scratch into his notepad. “An official investigation will be opened tomorrow. What we know for sure, looking at this method, is that the two murders tonight were definitely committed by the same killer.” His voice carried an exhaustion that came to fruition after many sleepless nights, spent at various scenes of slaughter over the course of years. “Of course, it just had to be the worst Ardhalis has ever known.”

  
  


Hermann pulled out his transceiver, making his way towards the bay window. “I will alert the castle and royal guard. Their security needs to be tightened before he strikes again.”

  
  


“It has been a curiously long time since she’s been seen around the city. Killing two people on one night is not her typical _modus operandi,_ either.”

  
  


Will had a bitter look on his face. “Just like vermin, when we finally thought she was gone for good, she pops back up.”

  
  


Kym shook her head. “And as always, that sneaky she-devil slipped through our fingers! Even when we were closer than ever to catching her.”

  
  


Kieran was alone in the middle of a thick mist, the others grasping for answers that he couldn’t yet see. “You’re saying we already know the identity of the killer?”

  
  


Each person in the room wore a grim expression, leaving Kieran with a feeling of dread. March said, “Of course we know.”

  
  


Hermann walked over to Grace, who nodded in understanding, fishing through her ice chest. 

  
  


“She signed her murders, the same way that she always does.” Hermann’s normally harsh demeanor was dulled by an intangible weight. 

  
  


Kieran craned his neck, trying to see the bag’s contents. And when he did, his stomach dropped to the floor.

  
  


A purple blossom lay within the plastic, each petal visibly stained with blood. The bloom was obviously dead, the vivid luster beginning to drain with each passing second. The ghost of it delivered the intended message just as well.

  
  


“Officer White, the assassin you encountered tonight is no other than the Purple Hyacinth.”

.

.

.

  
  


_How could I have not known?_

  
  


_The Purple Hyacinth. The most powerful weapon in the Phantom Scythe’s arsenal._

  
  


_Responsible for the bloodiest crimes our city has ever seen. No traces, no evidence, only leaving her signature purple hyacinth next to each of the corpses in her wake._

  
  


_I was almost one of them. But she kept me alive._

  
  


_That woman… She was more than a lucid nightmare. She was a demon sent straight from Hell._

_._

_._

_._

  
  


“No shame in losing her, Kieran.” Kym’s voice broke through Kieran’s realization. “You’re the only one that’s even gotten _close_ to her. The closest encounter that we’ve had in the five years she’s been active. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  
  


_But I shouldn’t be._

  
  


March nodded in agreement. “Sometimes, civilians will come to the office, claiming that they’ve seen the assassin’s shadow rushing across their rooftops at night. But nobody has ever been able to describe her in the detail that Officer White was able to tonight. At least, we know who we’re looking for now. Don’t underestimate the value of what you were able to provide, White. You should be satisfied knowing that.”

  
  


_How could I be satisfied, knowing that after all these years, I could’ve had her?_

  
  


“You got very lucky tonight, Officer.” Hermann almost seemed somber. “You should’ve called for backup.”

  
  


“Yes, sir.” The thought had crossed Kieran’s mind as he pursued the assassin, but the encounter itself had left his mind full of fog and dead air, and he couldn’t figure out why. 

  
  


“Lady Grayson’s maid being awake and the police’s quick response were variables that the PH must not have considered.” Will rolled down the sleeves of his coat. “It’s fortunate that we happened to live nearby. The situation could’ve been a lot worse.”

  
  


Despite the aloof expression she wore, Kym seemed deep in thought. “Could this have been intentional?”

  
  


“What do you mean?”

  
  


“Think about it: Two murders, back-to-back. Make sure we can see her, but not catch her. A power play.”

  
  


“Plausible, Ladell.” Hermann had moved to the window, inspecting the scene unfolding a story below. “The Purple Hyacinth has been taunting the royal family for years now. Co-opting their family crest as some sort of _sick joke_.”

  
  


Will turned towards the group. “A threat, more likely.”

  
  


“What if they’re an apology?” Kieran couldn’t take his eyes off of the flower in Hermann’s hands. Despite its morbid affects, it was almost entrancing. He hadn’t thought that he would ever see one of the infamous blooms in person, much less their mistress.

  
  


“That’s impossible.” Kym looked at Kieran, unsure where his answer had come from. “Any regret that she might’ve had has long been drowned by all of the blood on her hands.”

  
  


_I do what must be done. I do it succinctly._ **_And, I have no regrets._ **

  
  


“You’re right.” Kieran repressed the memory. “I misspoke.”

  
  


“Regardless, this isn’t her usual political terrorism. Rocca and Grayson were recently recruited as double agents, assigned to infiltrate the Scythe’s underground network. Only those with the highest security clearance were aware. Seems like the leader’s always one step ahead of us.” March glanced down at the body next to him in a way that almost seemed remorseful.

  
  


This Lady Grayson was more complex than she had let on. Her hesitance in conversation might’ve been out of boredom, but nonetheless, every sentence she spoke was another step through a minefield. How draining it must’ve been to be one woman, split between two worlds and identities.

  
  


“Hawkes, Ladell, White. I want to thank you for your quick responses tonight. The investigation unit will take care of the rest. You are all dismissed.”

  
  


Kieran took a breath. “Captain, I thought I should let you know that Lady Grayson was my company earlier today. I could give a report if you need-”

  
  


“What I need is for you to go home and rest… What you did this afternoon is of no importance at the moment, and if it is, I will contact you about it. You’re bleeding all over the carpet.”

  
  


Kieran looked down, and sure enough, the haphazard job he had done when tending to his wounds was showing. The gauze was stained and unraveled around his arm, and small rivers of blood were working their ways down his palm and fingers onto the expensive looking rug underneath him. He was sure that de la Rocca would have delivered a swift beating to him for tainting the carpet, if he hadn’t taken one himself.

  
  


He jumped in place, hastily cradling his wounded arm. He let the blood begin to soak into the sleeve of his jacket as a more suitable alternative. In all honesty, he likely looked to be in worse condition than the nearby cadaver. At least there was an order to its defilement. “Sorry, sir.”

.

.

.

  
  


“What a prick!” Kym spat as soon as the trio were out of earshot. “Good to see Hermann’s still on your ass. I’m surprised that you didn’t have any choice words for him!”

  
  


Kieran laughed, despite not finding any humor in his predicament. “Ladell, you know I’d love to, but I don’t bite the hand that feeds me. I feast well off of my income and a steady supply of facade compliments.”

  
  


Will smirked. “Ladell, you could spare him a fraction of the grief that you deliver on a daily basis. I wouldn’t mind.”

  
  


She gave him a look, and charged after him. Will grinned and chuckled softly as Kym pounced on him. The turbulent ocean of their interactions often parted as a sea, leaving a sort of peace that was generally fun to watch. But Kieran had too much on his mind. He floated down the stairway of the mansion like a resident ghost, thinking to himself.

  
  


“Kieran? Are you coming?”

  
  


Snapping back to reality, Kieran flashed a grin at his friends. “Planning on staying the night.” He jogged ahead to meet Kym and Will before exiting the doorway. 

.

.

.

  
  
  


The snap was audible as Kym braced her jaw in her hands, cracking her head back and forth. She stretched her arms up to the sky with a loud yawn. 

  
  


“Well, all’s well that ends well, right?”

  
  


“Kym, two people are dead.”

  
  


“That was sarcasm, Williame.”

  
  


“Sure it was.”

  
  


“Well, time to go home then!” Kym fished into the pocket of her uniform, pulling out a golden pocket watch on a long chain. Her eyes widened as she inspected the clock face. “Woah! **It sure is running faster today!** It’s super late!”

  
  


She tucked the watch into her back pocket, smiling cheerfully despite the circumstances and time of night. “Alright, boys. I’m going home, and I intend to sleep like a log ‘till the morning comes.” She abruptly turned to William, grabbing him by his sleeve. “And _you_ better walk him home, _or I’ll kill you._ ”

  
  


She pivoted on her heel, walking in the opposite direction of the two men. _“Adieu, manservants!”_

  
  


“Bye Kym!” Kieran shook his head as the woman faded from view, holding up a peace sign as she jogged. He started walking in his house’s direction, attempting to leave his other partner in his wake. “It’s getting late. I’ll be fine! Go home, _Lieutenant_.”

  
  


Will easily caught up, and matched Kieran’s pace. “You could’ve died today, Kieran. You can’t seriously think I’m letting you walk home alone, when you’ve just spent half the night chasing down the most notorious killer in the city. She could be waiting for you.”

  
  


“You care too much, Will.”

“You don’t care enough. So I’ve made it my job. Can’t you let an old friend walk you home, just this once? Besides, we’re kind of in the same direction anyway.”

  
  


“Hmm.” Kieran relented, slowing down to walk comfortably next to Will. “Makes me nostalgic. Remember our academy days?”

  
  


Will smirked, a light igniting in his eyes. “Academy days? Don’t you remember our Prep days?”

  
  


As if hearing some sort of signal, the two began to recite together, their voices gaining traction and volume as they spoke: _“Ardhalis Prep, prestigious institution of secondary education, distinguished in both academics and athletics. Where boys become men, and the future!”_

  
  


The words engrained in each of the school’s pamphlets, diplomas, and honorable speeches would never be cleansed from the minds of its alumni. Kieran laughed at the frivolous proverb, wrapping his clean arm around Will’s shoulders playfully. “How could I ever forget? Our fifteen year old selves in our little dorm room, without a care in the world? No midnight calls about deranged criminals, our only worries involving passing finals and not pissing off the RA?”

  
  


Will nodded. “Ah, the good old days! Hard to believe it's been almost a decade. I guess we’re getting old, then?”

  
  


“Hardly.”

  
  


Kieran clapped Will’s shoulders one last time, and let his arm drop back to his side. The two walked in silence for a bit, reminiscing about shared times that were long gone. Will looked to Kieran, a somewhat troubled look on his face. “Sometimes, I wonder if we should’ve graduated early.”

  
  


“Ha! We would’ve been too bored otherwise. We drove the teachers at Prep insane for years; We’d hate to condemn the Academy professors to the same fate.”

  
  


Will scoffed. “Touché! But did we ever think that we’d go from wrestling in your parents’ garden to _this?”_

  
  


Kieran pondered that idea for a moment. “I certainly didn’t. How quickly things change.”

  
  


“How quickly, indeed.”

  
  


Kieran hesitated before asking his question. “How’s your mother been lately?”

  
  


A shadow fell over Will’s face, and he seemed to age in front of Kieran’s eyes. “The usual.”

  
  


“I see. I’m sure her health will improve soon. With everything you’ve tried, _something_ has to work.”

  
  


The look in Will’s eyes was jaded, but also that of a boy that was forced to grow up too fast. Kieran had become somewhat familiar with that side of his companion, and knew that his familial life was a topic that should be avoided more often than not. He nudged him, hoping to change the subject for his friend’s sake. “Speaking of work, you’ve been slacking off, _Lieutenant!_ Your squad is running wild! Just look at me and Ladell! We’re out of line, both of us!”

  
  


“Ah, Kym Ladell.” If Will had previously aged at the mention of his mother, he now appeared to be deceased. Somehow, it was an improvement. “She never listens, goes out of her way to drive me insane, and is possibly the most argumentative person I’ve ever met. That woman will be the death of me.”

  
  


“And that makes her the best!”

  
  


“The worst. Curse the day she was assigned to me.”

  
  


Kieran put a bloody hand over his heart in mock disbelief. “Now, she’d be hurt if she heard that from you!”

  
  


“She’s lucky she’s observant and never misses her target.”

  
  


“If I recall, she did pepper you with blanks repeatedly back at the Academy. _You’re_ lucky her gun wasn’t loaded back then. If she heard you now, I’m sure she wouldn’t be so kind.”

  
  


“Well, I’ve learned that kindness is comparative.” They stopped in front of Kieran’s flat, their faces illuminated only by the flickering light of the moth-swarmed lantern hanging on the front stoop. Will opened his mouth with a sort of hesitation. “Kieran, a lot’s been different since we’ve gotten our badges. But, I’m glad some things didn’t change at all.”

  
  


“And some things never will. Don’t forget it.” Kieran let his voice slip into the cheerful and lavish tones of a mocking accent. _“Now, the gentleman has been delivered to his quarters safely. You are dismissed.”_

  
  


Will raised an eyebrow in jest before pivoting on his heel to make his way back down the street. “Get some sleep! See you tomorrow.”

  
  


Kieran waved as his friend turned the corner. He let his hand linger in the air, his fingers curling into his palm, seemingly reaching out to grasp something incorporeal. 

  
  


_Some things never change. But all good things seem to come to an end._

.

.

.

  
  


The leather notebook lay open on Kieran’s desk, just as he had left it. The black ink had long since dried into a cracked, grey shade. He closed it gently, sliding some books aside on his shelf to place it back in its spot. He pushed it back into place, loosening his tie tentatively against his sore neck. He flicked on his bedside lamp, the ample glow reminiscent of a certain pair of lethal eyes.

  
  


_So this goes beyond occupational responsibility, then?_

  
  


_This is personal._

  
  


The woman’s words were toxic, seeping into Kieran’s consciousness even as he strained to deflect the memories. He knew that she was an effigy, a fragment of a monument erected against all that he stood for.

  
  


How could her intentions really be as truthful as they had sounded?

  
  


It had been ten long years of analysis, ten years of empty discovery that had been full of dead ends, one after the other. Kieran just wanted to make things better, as much as he could. And to save others from sharing the same fate as him. As them.

  
  


The newspaper still lay face up on the desk, the dates already ingrained into Kieran’s mind boring in yet again. He lifted it, and shoved it into the desk’s drawer before flinging it shut. The corner of the paper protested, catching outside of the desk’s confines. He tugged the drawer back open, cramming it into place, before slamming it closed again. 

  
  


He really should have just let it go. 

  
  


_It shouldn’t really matter. It’s all in the past now._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND I THOUGHT THAT LAST CHAPTER WAS DIALOGUE HEAVY-
> 
> This chapter was pretty canon-compliant, just because so many different plot points are dropped. I hope that I was able to mix it up a little bit with some plot points of my own and you still enjoyed reading :)  
> It will pick up in the next couple of chapters, I promise! I have some fun plans ahead.
> 
> So if Lady Grayson was a double agent for the APD, but also worked for the PS, does that make her a triple agent? Or was she really just faking her alliances? Anyone's guess.
> 
> I've been rereading the old chapters, and I'm already so happy with how my writing has improved! I'm definitely still learning, and I'm trying really hard to preserve the integrity and personalities of each character throughout the roleswap even as I alter the storyline. Criticism and comments are always welcome, feel free to drop em in the comments section.
> 
> SIDE NOTE- Happy Anniversary to PH! I'm so happy and proud to be a part of this wonderful fandom. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	5. Quotidie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s been over a year, Captain. People change.”
> 
> Hermann turned around, raking his eyes over the man ahead of him. “People do change. But you haven’t. Not one bit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: on the daily)_

Amidst a night of blades and bullets, a bar remained alight with guests. The congestion was unusual, considering the time. Lonely shadows slouched at the counter, nursing strong glasses of booze. A rowdy group of men sat playing cards at one of the tables. The consciousness of the establishment as a whole had begun to slip away with time, leaving nothing but emotions inflated by even the feeblest intoxication.

  
  


To the unfamiliar eye, it seemed a place of light companionship. But, it could not be denied that each client knew of all others, of their reputations and the blood on their hands. They were aware of each other’s statuses, and the quickest ways to get a knife to their throats, if need be. Violence, or even full out savagery, was a constant possibility. It could be ignited with even the smallest spark against the sloshing alcohol.

  
  


“You should’ve _seen_ the look on their faces! I pull out the knife, and they turn into trembling puppies at my feet!” The table’s dealer guffawed, taking a long drag on his cigar as he shuffled his deck, his friends following suit. The smoke encircled his face, creating an incongruous halo. “Didn’t use it, but I _swear_ that they pissed themselves.”

  
  


The cackling from their group echoed throughout the bar. The man snuffed his cigar on the table, leaving an ashen pile of soot. He flicked the stub to the floor, and pulled a knife from under the table. He waved it around to his companions before pushing the tip under his fingernails in an attempt to give them a cleaning. He looked up from his work in time to see a figure dressed in black enter. Any of the chatter that had remained was sapped from the room, as though the being was a black hole, or some kind of vacuum.

  
  


A companion, who had drunk himself to the point of giddy delirium, opened his mouth to speak, when he found himself with a knife pointed at his neck.

  
  


_“If you speak…”_ The dealer whispered to his two friends, his voice raspy from smoke and terror. _“That’s the PH. She’s the worst out of all of us. You mess with her, you’re dead by morning.”_

  
  


The third tablemate shrunk in his seat as the woman passed them by. “She holds practically all of the records in the P.S.” He shuddered. “Has more nerve than the rest of us combined. She’s probably here to report another kill.”

  
  


The Purple Hyacinth heard the words of the frantic party as she passed. Their words were unsavory in her ears, but satisfying nonetheless. She had learned a long time ago that fear held more weight than love, or even life itself.

  
  


The drunk man spoke up despite the warnings. 

  
  


“That’s the PH? Wish I could go for a swim in those golden eyes,” he drawled. “They’re just so... _pensive,_ no? _”_

  
  


The assassin stilled.

  
  


The tension swelled into a tangible entity that every person in the bar could feel, could even breathe. And it was suffocating, far beyond the tobacco fog that had made the building its home. 

  
  


They each took a sigh of relief as the woman continued to make her way to the back door of the bar.

  
  


If his first offense wasn’t dire enough, the man stood up, his chair flipping and falling to the floor beneath him with a loud slam. He pulled a knife from the tabletop, and focused his scattered mind on his game.

  
  


He should’ve known that his prey would be his merciless predator. The Purple Hyacinth was a wolf with no want for woolen clothing. She was raised to be callous and cruel, and to relish in her cold-bloodedness. And she did.

  
  


She did.

  
  


The drunkard tripped and limped as he caught up with her. “Hey, you!” His words were slurred and he reeked of his drink. “We joined the P.S. to get away from this elitist crap. So shouldn’t you greet the guttersnipes, beautiful?”

  
  


His two companions watched him as he dug into the final depths of his grave. The ground he stood upon, unbalanced, required no shovel for it to crumble below him.

  
  


He pulled his knife back, preparing to strike. But the assassin heard the metal’s song, and saw its shine refracted in a hundred little ways around the bar. As the blade fell, it found itself caught between her two gloved fingers. They brushed its edge, but she held the bolster with such force that she never felt its bite.

  
  


“Hello there, _guttersnipe.”_ She yanked the knife from his feeble grip, and began to twirl it between her fingertips, letting it dance in her grasp.

  
  


“That’s my knife! It’s not for the taking!” He slurred as he reached for his weapon, his movements childish and unbalanced.

  
  


“Oh, this?” She let the blade rest against her other palm, and proceeded to push into it. The metal submitted her grip, and the blade’s spine warped slowly in front of its owner’s eyes. The resulting instrument was too pitiful to be called a scythe, much less a weapon at all. “I would barely call this a knife. I have no use for it.”

  
  


Even with the crippled steel, the Purple Hyacinth was completely capable of damage.

  
  


_THUMP._

  
  


The entire bar looked up from their activities at the sound _._ The crooked blade had pinned through the fabric of the man’s shirt, narrowly missing any skin. The metal lodged into the wooden paneling of the wall, the handle swaying rapidly from the force of the action.

  
  


The man shook and stuttered, his eyes wide and trained on the knife inches from his face. Having been pinned to the wall like one of the _Wanted_ posters fluttering outside the establishment, it was safe to say he had been sobered.

  
  


“That was a gentle reminder that this is a _tavern,_ not a _zoo._ Keep that in mind, or next time I might be dropping by to report _your_ death.” She left him struggling against the wall, satisfied by the shuffle of the drunk’s friends to pry him from his predicament.

.

.

.

  
  


The backroom of the tavern was left unlocked, as she had expected. It was a dark box, with no source of light except the little that shone through the tinted window of the door she had passed through. The walls were lined with stacks of crates, which nearly concealed a second door. The assassin swallowed, pushing it open. 

  
  


An empty alley acted as a sort of hallway. Another door awaited her, the handle frigid from the winter winds. The room within held naught but a cage, furnished with a chair and metal shackles. The chains were tainted with what could only be rust or blood. Either option was plausible.

  
  


She shuddered as she recalled the screams, and the way that the bullets had ricocheted off of the walls of the prison where she had lost herself. 

  
  


One last door. The room was empty except for a large table, and the figure standing behind it.

  
  


“Apostle IV.” She nodded in greeting to the man, cloaked in black, a long beak masking his face. A top hat completed the sickeningly plum display. “The targets, Robert de la Rocca and Rosa Grayson, were eliminated tonight. I brought the documents that the leader requested.” 

  
  


She reached into her coat, pulling various packets of papers that remained astoundingly uncreased despite the night’s events. “They were working for the APD, trying to infiltrate the Phantom Scythe, just as we had suspected. It was rather careless of them to leave evidence.”

  
  


The ivory beak did nothing to muffle his voice. It came out loud and clear. “Anything else to report?”

  
  


“Grayson’s maid alerted the police. They arrived as I was completing my second job. As always, they were too slow.”

  
  


“You’re not taken by surprise often. I’ll hope that you weren’t seen.”

  
  


“Definitely not.” She allowed herself a small sneer. Confidence in her work was necessary, but only in small quantities. She had known others who had crossed that line, and found themselves _anatomically deficient,_ in one way or another.

  
  


The Apostle reached out a gloved hand to take the papers from the table. His fingers rifled through the stack, intent on confirming a successful delivery. “You carried out your orders, as always.”

  
  


As always, she would do what they wanted. She would kill, and she would break away from every fiber of her being as she did.

  
  


_“You- you were that girl-”_

  
  


_She remembered him the most._

  
  


_He was dead._

  
  


_His lifelight extinguished with a single crimson arc._

  
  


_She’d killed him after all, with hollowed eyes and an empty mind._

“Yes. As always.”

  
  


The Apostle nodded curtly. “Expect to hear from us again soon. I’m sure the leader will be pleased. And, I’d like to give you a word of advice.”

  
  


“You don’t say...” She began to make the motions to leave the room, her duties fulfilled. She had always found the Apostle’s beak off putting. The only plague that required eradication wafted from behind the mask, and it festered.

  
  


“Try not to upset _him.”_

  
  


She stopped in her tracks.

  
  


“Yes, you are the Purple Hyacinth, but that does not mean that your every move is not being watched. Take caution.”

  
  


“Thanks for the warning. But it never crossed my mind.” She nodded a farewell, her fingers resting on the door. “Honestly. It would be imprudent to consider.”

.

.

.

  
  


In recent times, the sun had become Kieran’s enemy. Its embrace over the morning air was akin to suffocation. That particular morning, his hair felt too long, his uniform too heavy and unkempt. Nothing was right.

  
  


To that effect, he felt like a moody teenager again.

  
  


If only his problems were as miniscule as they had been then. He could no longer hide from the world and expect them to go away of their own accord.

  
  


He approached the large white building on the edge of the city square, _Ardhalis Police Department_ carved into its face. Although imposing, Kieran had entered and exited the doors enough times to make his workplace seem like a second sort of home. 

  
  


“Good morning, Officer White!” The young woman presiding over a typewriter looked up at Kieran from behind her glasses.

  
  


“Lila! Long time, no see. How was your family?”

  
  


“Better than ever! I should’ve taken my week off a long time ago…” Her voice, airy already, trailed off rather quickly. The secretary smiled politely and handed him a clipboard before turning her chair to the file cabinet at her desk. Her strawberry-blonde hair fell over her face as she sifted through the mess of papers, rendering her expression unreadable. “Hermann left this for you to write up a personal account, in place of a report.”

  
  


“Ah, heaven forbid he speak to me in person. Thanks, Lila.” Pulling a pen from the basket on her desk, Kieran began to read over the dense notes he was expected to fill.

  
  


“Morning, Kieran.” Kym hovered over the clipboard behind him, peeking at his work. She balanced a plate in her hand, scraping at a piece of cake doused in syrup. 

  
  


“Hey, Kym. Did you get home alright?”

  
  


“Mhmm...” A bubble of laughter escaped her lips, followed by a hacking fit as she chewed. 

  
  


“Try breathing in between bites. That might help.”

  
  


“Yeah, yeah.” Kym still looked humored as she gained her breath back. “Look, I’m not here to judge how you spend your… _free time…”_

  
  


She dragged her finger over her plate, picking up the syrupy residue. The sugar dripped down her finger and rolled over her palm as she licked it. “But, we’re all police officers here. We know evidence when we see it.”

  
  


“Ladell, it’s too early. What are you talking about?”

  
  


“Early, he says…” She wouldn’t meet his eyes, a smirk growing on her face as she looked below his face. He caught a glimpse of himself in the silver plaque over the secretary’s desk, which provided a decent but warped reflection. The abstractions were of no matter, because the twin bruises, planted asymmetrically on his throat, were quite vivid nonetheless.

Though he could only really assume, fingertips and lips look quite similar when planted on one’s neck.

  
  


_“Crumbs.”_

  
  


_“Crumbs_ is right. How romantic.”

  
  


Kieran groaned. “Kym, it’s not what-” 

  
  


He stopped himself. He had already committed himself to the fact that he hadn’t seen the assassin. And bringing up that he was _choked_ anyhow didn’t seem like the best response.

  
  


**“I’ve been having a bit of difficulty getting rid of some pests in my flat. It seems that they made their way into my bed last night. Spider bites, I think.”**

  
  


Kym raised an eyebrow, and flashed him a mischievous smile. “Well, we’ll just have to hope that the _spiders_ leave you alone tonight, won’t we, Kieran?”

  
  


“Kym, I swear-”

  
  


“I'm just messing with you! We all know you couldn’t get a girl if you dropped to your knees and begged.”

  
  


“You know what?” Kieran tugged his tie from his neck, and flicked Kym with the end of it. Lila, _bless her,_ must have been too polite to point the marks out. There was no way she could’ve missed them. He flipped up the edges of his collar, and fumbled through the basket on the desk until he found a spare paperclip. He was hoping for a safety pin, but it would have to do. He clipped it over his collar, fashioning a higher, makeshift neckline. “My demise will be at your hands, and your hands alone, Kym Ladell. I already know it.”

  
  


“They’d rather _die_ than spend time with you, quite literally!” Kym eyed his new accessory skeptically. “I can’t decide whether that looks better, or infinitely worse.”

  
  


“Well, it seems I don’t have a choice.”

  
  


“What are you going on about now?” Will approached the two of them, rubbing his eyes.

  
  


**“I was just telling Kieran how I need** ** _sleep._** Just being here is torture!” Kym reinforced her fib with a yawn that seemed to implode upon itself, turning into a moan of anguish.

  
  


Will scowled. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  
  


Their squabbles had become regular occurrences in the Precinct, so none of the officers looked up from their work as Kym and Will began to raise their voices. Kieran took the opportunity to go and make himself a coffee. He made his way to the station in the corner of the office.

  
  


“They’re lively today.” A tall man with dark hair and matching circles under his eyes joined Kieran, gripping a mug with such force that his knuckles had turned white.

  
  


“Randall. A lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  
  


He glowered. “It’s loud, and bright, and _exhausting._ Don’t pretend you don’t feel the same way.”

  
  


“Maybe today, at least.” Kieran filled the paper cup with the hot liquid, grasping its rim gently to avoid the heat. “But it's nice to see everyone so cheerful.”

  
  


“It’s nauseating. It wouldn’t be so cacophonous if they were all dead.” Randall’s words were a stark contrast to how he tentatively spooned lump after lump of sugar into his coffee, chasing the sweetness of it all down with cream. “I can only fantasize about how peaceful that would be.”

  
  


“Oh, you know that you’d miss us. So please don’t go pulling your gun.” The members of the Eleventh Precinct didn’t refer to Lukas Randall as _Grumpy Cat_ for no reason. His sour demeanor was bold, but overall welcome.

  
  


“I might consider it if they keep going on like this.” He gestured towards Will and Kym, who were still engaged in a round of banter. He took a sip of his concoction. “Being this energetic should be a death sentence.”

  
  


Will was pacing the office, exasperated with his partner. “Kym, don’t even _complain_ about being tired. Kieran and I didn’t get any more sleep than you did, and do you see us whinging around?”

  
  


“That’s different. You’re basically a _rock,_ so you never complain anyways. And we all know Kieran never sleeps.”

  
  


“Guilty as charged!” Sleep had eluded Kieran yet again. His restless nights had gone from frequent to regular.

Kym turned to Kieran, and grasped his shoulder in plea. “Kieran, _my good sir,_ the Lieutenant is being unsympathetic towards my situation! I simply cannot focus on my paperwork.”

  
  


“And is there any other reason for your inability, Ladell?”

  
  


Kym clutched her stomach, as if in terrible agony. **“Nausea, Kieran! Nausea.”**

  
  


Will scoffed. “Don’t even try. I saw you scarfing down the rest of the sweets from the company party last weekend. You can’t have been feeling that bad.”

  
  


“Now that, Ladell, is indefensible,” Kieran simpered. “Now, if you’d saved me some-”

  
  


“Be quiet, you. I left the cheesecake for you to pick at.”

Kieran threw his hands in the air. “All is forgiven!”

  
  


“Lieutenant, shouldn’t all of the treats explain my incapacitation?” Kym raised her head in indignance. 

  
  


“Maybe if you hadn’t been complaining about your _incapacitation_ to me from the moment we got here.” Will crossed his arms triumphantly. “Maybe you should consider a career in acting. It might suit you.”

  
  


“No can do, Williame. Hermann’s having me replace Sergeant Collins in forty-five minutes. I’m running the firearm examination for all the newbies.” She drew in a breath before letting it out slowly, satisfied. _“Ah…_ I can’t wait to fail them _so hard!”_

  
  


“We have a meeting in the briefing room,” Lukas grumbled, hoisting himself up from the table. “Try not to be late. Maybe then I can resist silencing the lot of you… then it would be peaceful.”

  
  


The lot of them decided not to question his threat, and followed the sullen man.

.

.

.

  
  


The Eleventh Precinct rose to their feet as the Captain entered the briefing room, and addressed him loud and clear. “Greetings, Captain Hermann!”

  
  


“Good morning to all.” The captain spoke with his usual, clipped tones as he made his way to the podium at the front of the briefing room. “As you all are aware, last night two high-profile members of the city were murdered in cold blood, within the security of their own homes.”

  
  


The officers nodded gravely.

  
  


“These murders have been determined to be the result of the actions of none other than the Purple Hyacinth.”

  
  


A couple of the policemen who weren’t on duty looked around in shock, but knew better than to react any further. Hermann liked his subordinates to be uniform, all cut from the same cloth, at any given time.

  
  


“Thanks to Officer White, we have gained intel on the assassin, who we now know to be female, around 5’6 in height, early to mid twenties in age.”

  
  


Kieran felt dizzy in his seat as he recalled the plethora more that he had found. It was too late to take back, or bring forward what he knew. The die had been cast the moment he had locked eyes with the murderess. He was crossing the Rubicon, and all he could do was his best not to be taken under its current.

  
  


“It’s fairly obvious that the assassin is back in hiding at this point. Nonetheless, please report anyone matching these descriptors that you deem to be engaging in any suspicious activities. The royal family has been alerted of this new danger, and we are awaiting more specific derivatives from the Chief of Police.”

  
  


“Yes, sir!”

  
  


Hermann began to enlighten the officers about the daily happenings, but it was all white noise to Kieran, nothingness that sloshed around in his ears before unproductively exiting the way it came.

  
  


_I know more. I know her bare face and her motives, and where she’ll be tonight. We’re so close to catching her, but I stand by._

  
  


“Finally, I need volunteers to work security at Viscount Redcliff’s annual ball on February 17th. His Majesty’s right hand, Lord Rhymsel, has personally requested our presence at this event. Many high profile members of the nobility are expected to attend.”

  
  


Kieran, Kym, and Will locked eyes with each other ever so slightly. None of them had been considered for it in the past due to inexperience. The Viscount’s ball was the cushiest gig of the year, but also the most risky. Any sort of mishap would be reported back to the central office, and Kieran could recall a couple of coworkers losing their jobs over it back when he was a new hire. 

  
  


“Keep in mind that you will be representing not only the Eleventh Precinct, but the Ardhalis Police Department as a whole. Your performances must be impeccable.”

  
  


If an officer could act as the APD’s paragon for one evening, it was grounds for a promotion. Kieran thought that it could be a _possibility-_

  
  


Hermann slammed his binder closed on the podium. “That is all. You are all dismissed.”

  
  


“Yes, sir!”

  
  


It was too much. Forget the deal. 

  
  


_She didn’t really think I’d come alone and willingly, did she? We can catch her._

  
  


Kieran rose from his chair, following Hermann as he left the room. Will grabbed his arm. “I really don’t think he-”

  
  


“I know.” Despite his words, Kieran followed the Captain from the briefing room.

  
  


_How could this not be a trap? She didn’t lie, but I can’t trust this deal. I just can’t._

  
  


_But how the hell am I going to explain this?_

  
  


“Captain Hermann!” Kieran called, jogging to keep up with him. 

  
  


Hermann froze, and turned. “Officer White. I trust Secretary Desroses gave you the papers I requested.”

  
  


“Yes, I will return that promptly. I was just thinking about de la Rocca and Grayson’s murders last night, and I’ve been theorizing-”

  
  


“Officer White.”

  
  


“Yes, Captain?”

  
  


“I have no doubt that you’ve spent all night theorizing and mulling the options over in your head. The bags under your eyes and your mess of a uniform make it fairly obvious. Your attention to detail and analytical perception on any crime scene is remarkable.”

  
  


“Thank you, Captain.” The complement was only a placebo. A falsity that would herald the inevitable truth.

  
  


_“However._ Must I remind you that there is a reason for you no longer being on the investigation unit anymore, _Officer?”_

  
  


_He had screamed of the lies, but nobody listened._

  
  


“Now, if you recall any additional details of her appearance, please report them to the _detective_ in charge of this case. And I'd like your account on my desk before you leave this afternoon. Is that clear?”

  
  


“Yes, Captain.”

  
  


“And, for the sake of the Precinct, do not involve yourself in this case any more than you already have. You’ve humiliated us enough in the past.”

  
  


Humiliated _them?_ Kieran had ruined his own life ten times over, and he still had to live with being a disgrace to others besides himself.

  
  


“You’re far too personally involved for me to allow you to investigate the Phantom Scythe again. You’re exceptionally talented, no doubt, but your deductions would be biased.”

  
  


The Captain began to move forward, clearly done with the conversation. Against his better judgement, Kieran spoke up from behind. 

  
  


“It’s been over a year, Captain. People change.”

  
  


Hermann turned around, raking his eyes over the man ahead of him. “People do change. But you haven’t. Not one bit. Have a good day, Officer.” 

  
  


Each word was a punch to the gut, and Kieran felt wounded long after the Captain had faded from view.

  
  


_After all this time, and one mistake is all it takes._

  
  


Kieran pushed the door to the briefing room open, where Will had waited for him. Kym had likely left to prepare for the examination. 

  
  


Will knew from the defeated look on Kieran’s face not to ask about how his words with the Captain had been received. But a different look, one that he couldn’t quite pinpoint, had manifested underneath his usual mask of defeatism. It almost reeked of anger.

  
  


Will tried to douse this emotion, even though he was clearly annoyed with his friend. This dance wasn’t an unfamiliar one, but it seemed more complicated that time around. “Don’t worry about it too much, Kieran. Whatever he said to you might’ve sounded worse than it came out, it always does.” 

  
  


Kieran didn’t answer. He gazed out the window, an empty look in his eyes.

  
  


Will’s voice softened, and he tried for a kinder approach. “Hey, we have the rest of the night off. Why don’t we all go out for drinks tonight? It’s on me.”

  
  


Kieran laughed to himself, attempting to appear cheerful. An acrid dryness still crept into his voice.

  
  


_I’m such a fool._

  
  


“Thanks, Will. But as much as I’d love to drink my problems away, I’ve got something else I need to address tonight.”

.

.

.

  
  


He saw her shadow looming over the bridge from streets away. The Purple Hyacinth sat on the bridge itself, her legs crossed, looking out into the water below. No doubt she was aware of his presence.

  
  


_Can something be so wrong, that it’s actually right?_

  
  


He couldn’t tell if he was edging closer to a beginning, or to his imminent demise. No matter.

  
  


He would be repenting in the present, for the sake of his past. His ghosts watched him, egging him on as he approached his ultimatum, launching himself into a new trajectory of which was unclear.

  
  


She turned, her crimson ponytail flying in the night’s wind as she locked eyes with him. 

  
  


_All rise, for the dead man walking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE GO
> 
> BUCKLE UP, BABY!
> 
> Yes, Kieran will still say "Crumbs" in any universe. Thank you.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Any criticism or thoughts are welcome and enjoyed <3


	6. Quid Pro Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working together would be a dubious arrangement. The sun and moon were never meant to meet, to dance a forbidden dance. Black and White would never be able to yield anything other than mottled grey. 
> 
> Not unless they were willing to cleanse the city with ink and blood and bleach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: something for something. A compromise. A deal.)_

_What does one do when faced with the Goliath known as Moral Grey?_

  
  


Kieran did not avert his eye contact as he approached the bridge, the connection between them turning visceral by the night’s breezes. He had walked from his apartment, where a great deal of pacing and rumination had occurred. It didn’t take long for him to break. He had changed into suitable clothes, draped a scarf over his bruises, and left for the rendezvous against his better judgement.

  
  


After much deliberation, the white ribbon in his hair had been left untouched.

  
  


The marigold fabric lay forsaken on his dresser, as it had for days. But ghosts need no vessel to claim a victim. 

  
  


Perhaps _victim_ was the wrong word. That would be far too ironic.

  
  


_Convict_ was more appropriate.

  
  


The Purple Hyacinth swung her legs over the footbridge’s side, standing up to face Kieran daintily. “You know, I might even be surprised that you showed up, Officer.”

  
  


“Is that so?”

  
  


“You seemed so hellbent on dissociating yourself with the likes of me just last night. Quite the paradox, you are.”

  
  


“A handsome one, at that.”

  
  


She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  
  


“Anyways, now that the pleasantries have gone south…” Kieran glared at the woman. “You’re the Purple Hyacinth. Did you perhaps forget to mention that little detail during our chat last night?”

  
  


“Forgive me,” she said dryly. “But I thought it would be obvious once you laid eyes on the crime scene. And yet, you’re still here. You must be more desperate than I had thought.”

  
  


“Not desperate, darling.” Kieran winked at the assassin. “Just a little bit insane. Same as yourself.”

  
  


His remark drew a modest smile from her. “Perhaps. I’ll blame your lunacy on the decade you’ve spent turning your cogs over a dead-end investigation.” 

  
  


“Hilarious.”

  
  


The words that they exchanged were just that. Ridiculous utterances, a facade for what was going on underneath the noise. Questions would be statements, and any statements would bear underlying implications. No amount of banter would conceal the truth of their words. 

  
  


But it could be worse. At least Kieran was armed.

  
  


She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. Her white blouse was tucked smartly into a pair of trousers, a contrast to the way she had cloaked herself in twilight just one night prior. Some sort of steel was clearly weighing down her taupe jacket, but the obviousness of it was absolutely intentional. 

  
  


The pleated collar of her blouse shifted on her shoulders as she crossed her arms. “You should know that the Phantom Scythe spends its time and resources making sure that the APD never gets past the red herrings and fraudulent tales we fabricate.”

  
  


Kieran’s mouth drew itself tightly across his face, locked in a firm line. “I came here tonight because I know that you were honest with me, plain and simple.” 

  
  


Kieran could mask threats of his own. He pulled his handgun from his pocket, where the cold metal of the barrel had been biting him through his woolen coat. He smoothed out some of the scuffs on the wood frame with the pad of his thumb, holding the weapon up and fiddling with the safety. 

  
  


It was nothing more than performance, an extravagant display of showmanship. Intimidating the Purple Hyacinth would be a Herculean task that he didn’t feel was worth attempting. 

  
  


“Somehow, your motives are the same as mine,” Kieran huffed, a bubble of dry laughter escaping with the fleeting breath. “I can’t say that I understand. You’re a bit of an enigma, to be honest.”

  
  


Her golden eyes fell to his gun, the skepticism tangible in her voice. “I suppose that’s for the better. I have a reputation to uphold, you know. I can’t go revealing everything about myself in my introduction.”

  
  


Kieran pressed his unarmed hand to his temple, shaking his head in a mockery of disbelief. “Of course, of course. _Purple Hyacinth, Mysterious Killer, the reason that sane people in the city don’t sleep at night.”_

  
  


He let his arms fall, holding his weapon at his side. “So, my question is, why the _hell_ am I still alive?”

  
  


“It’s just as I said before. I need a lead in the Police Department, someone to help me put my plans in motion.” She leaned back on the bridge’s side, her coat falling into a flowing standstill behind her. “My dear _subordinate.”_

  
  


“You split my sides, Hyacinth.” Kieran’s voice had grown raspy over the past day, each word laced with a cynical crackle. He looked out to the river, the night staining the flow of water an inky black. “There is still absolutely no reason for you to trust me. You know next to naught about me.”

  
  


“You’re not wrong.” She took a long look at him, assessing his value as though he was livestock up for auction. “But you’re straight-laced enough to put weight in my word, and crooked enough to take mine at face value. And I know that you and I share the same… vengeful desires. Plus, you’re useful. My own little lie detector.”

  
  


“Buy one.”

  
  


She shrugged. “Why? When I can have you for free?”

  
  


“I’ve seen your face. Bold of you to assume that I wouldn’t bring the entirety of the Precinct here with me tonight.”

  
  


“Bold of you to assume that seeing my face is some sort of sacred pleasure.” Rolling her eyes, she turned scornful. “I roam the city in broad daylight, and nobody seems to run away screaming, as far as I’m aware. As if I’d have any interest in killing people at random.”

  
  


“But why would you trust me?”

  
  


Her face was sculpted of stone, its creamy surface silver in the moonlight. “Because you’re obsessed. I can see it in your every action, even when you try to hide it behind your suave demeanor.”

  
  


“Go on.”

  
  


“You aren’t foolish enough to walk away from this, when the benefits are so mutual. _I know_ that you’re aware that turning me in would not only be a waste of time, but unfruitful. We want the same thing. Don’t pretend otherwise, Officer. Help me, and we both get what we want.”

  
  


Her words were contradictory to the image of herself that she had painted in the blood of her victims, murals that stretched miles wide. Kieran couldn’t forget the horrors he had experienced by her hand. “But tell me, _Hyacinth,_ don’t you have all that you want already? You’re the Leader’s top assassin. Hell’s gates open for you and you alone.”

  
  


“Was that flattery, or an insult?”  
  


“Take it as it is. Why do you want to kill him?”

  
  


The ember in her eyes was doused, leaving nothing but a muted haze of smoke. “Believe me when I say that I have my reasons. Despite what you may believe, the Phantom Scythe is no tea party. We have our fair share of conflict and back-stabbings. Nobody ever agrees on anything.”

  
  


“Oh, and how does that go? _‘Should we slit the pulmonary or the jugular? Why, would the man better hold his monkshood or arsenic?’”_

  
  


He could always fan her flames. It seemed to be the dynamic that was unfolding. 

  
  


“Very witty.” The assassin glared at Kieran. “None of this ever reaches the top, obviously. The Leader has pawns everywhere, and no one has ever had the nerve to instigate anything with him. So, we do his dirty work, and become his little necessities. That’s the only way to get close to him. To stop him. Not to mention we don’t know his identity.”

  
  


“That does not explain why you want him dead.”

  
  


“And it will go unexplained.” Her eyes traveled away from Kieran, away from the bridge, and perhaps even from Ardhalis itself. “My motives are irrelevant, as are yours. There is no reason to make them known. I want the leader gone. I only care about making that a reality, and so should you. Do you accept the deal or not?”

  
  


“Now, say I did, what are your conditions? I’m not walking into this blind.”

  
  


She drummed her fingers along the stone of the bridge, deliberating. “Two rules. Straightforward enough?”

  
  


“Shoot.”

  
  


“First, no withholding relevant information. Anything you know, I know, and vice-versa. And don’t you dare say that ‘relevant’ is relative. **”**

  
  


Kieran scoffed. “Understood. No grey areas between us. Same can go for new discoveries, or we’ll both end up dead.”

  
  


“Obviously.” Pivoting on her heel, she began to pace to the other side of the bridge, stopping on the other side to look at the water below. “Second, no personal questions. To keep Rule One in check. Simple enough.”

  
  


She was silent for a beat, their ears filled with only the subtle rippling of the rapids beneath them conversing with the river rocks.

  
  


She turned to face Kieran abruptly, as if taken by surprise by her own quietude.

  
  


“One more! No ‘accidentally’ killing each other. That sounds like a reasonable request. What do you say?”

  
  


“Hmm. It sounds plausible.” Kieran put his finger to his lips, running the ideas on his tongue. “On second thought, allow me to propose some of my own conditions. I don’t want to be mixed up in your business with the P.S., seeing as it’s gone to hell anyways. And it’s illegal.”

  
  


“Investigation-related business only. Won’t be a problem...” She shook her head in mock pity. “But don’t think you’re so high and mighty for this. You’re still associating with the likes of me.”

  
  


Kieran let the statement roll off of his back, at least for that time. It still took root inside him. _“And,_ you stay the _hell_ out of my life. If anyone who matters to me so much as is _aware_ of your presence, more so than they already are, consider this partnership over.”

  
  


The woman put her hands ahead of her, showing her palms defensively. “Why must you think so lowly of me, Officer? We’re going to have to trust each other. If we burn, we burn together. That’s the only way that this alliance will be of any benefit. Your pessimism is yet another one of your weak points.”

  
  


Kieran laughed out loud. “Well, I’m just downright _peppered_ with them! You’ll learn soon enough.”

  
  


“I’m sure I will.” She joined in on the laughter, neither of them truly humoured. The garish sound was chilling. “When and if this goes downhill, you’ll have your guns, and I’ll have my blades. We’re on even footing here. So, do we have a deal?”

  
  


It was more of a declaration than a query. The answer had been predetermined from the moment that Kieran had let the woman walk away.

  
  


“Yes. I suppose we do.”

  
  


The Purple Hyacinth smiled sweetly, as if she had been offered a compliment. “Wonderful! It’s a pleasure to meet you, Officer. I’m Lauren.”

  
  


“And do you have a surname, Lauren?”

  
  


She paused for a second. “How about we go with Rosenthal?”

  
  


The evasive phrasing. The look on her face. She was lying, even if Kieran’s ears couldn’t catch the falsity itself. 

  
  


It was a challenge.

  
  


“Lauren Rosenthal?”

  
  


“If the name fits on your lips, it should be the one you use.”

  
  


He would soon learn to recognize the melancholy that pulsed and ebbed behind the surface of her words. At that moment, only a whisper of it was audible.

  
  


“Very well, _Lauren Rosenthal._ My name is Kieran White.”

  
  


Lauren beamed with satisfaction. She reached into the pocket of her coat, the familiar requiem of a blade filling the still air. Kieran reeled back in shock, flipping the safety of his gun. He held it to Lauren, only to see her open her empty hand to the night sky, giving him an incredulous look. “I’m offended.”

  
  


The blade she held was somehow dainty despite its cruel intentions. The tip drew blood from the surface of her palm, the liquid beading up slowly as she looked to Kieran.

  
  


“While I’m sure you polish your murder-tools nightly, I’ll pass.” Lauren’s eyes followed Kieran attentively as he lay his gun down on the side of the bridge. He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a letter opener. The opalescent handle shone in his grip. The hand that grasped it held no trace of a quiver. That night, the tool wouldn’t slice through paper, but it's wielder’s skin to tap his crimson inkwells.

  
  


Kieran took a breath before pressing the blade into his skin.

  
  


_No going back now, I suppose._

  
  


The pain was musical, filling the silence as they bore twin wounds, even though it was disregarded. Their hands met and shook.

  
  


Their blood made trails that traveled through their fingers and mingled with one another, greeting the other trickles. Perfect strangers, embracing like old friends reunited. When the droplets were pulled downwards from their palms’ clasp, they seemed to fall for an eternity before hitting the hard surface of the bridge without a sound.

  
  


Working together would be a dubious arrangement. The sun and moon were never meant to meet, to dance a forbidden dance. Black and White would never be able to yield anything other than mottled grey. 

  
  


Not unless they were willing to cleanse the city with ink and blood and bleach.

  
  


Lauren pulled him in abruptly by the weight of their grasp, murmuring in his ear. “So it begins.”

  
  


Kieran looked up, feeling his partner’s breath fill his system through their proximity. Lauren’s grip on him was undeniable, unbreakable. If he was to cavort with the devil, then he would so with pride. 

  
  


Kieran looked Lauren in the eye as their hands squeezed each other, one taunting the other to resist the tension. He let his expression slide into a lazy grin that held no panic. Anything of that sort had been shoved deep within his core.

  
  


Fear would be the end-all of the proposition. Kieran would pose as unbreakable, despite his pliability, until the moment that the assassin would finally cause him to shatter.

  
  


Kieran hadn’t given the opportunity to make things right. So, he would take it. He would steal it, mercilessly, under the light of the same moon where he had lost it all.

  
  


It wasn’t hard for Kieran to be himself, truly. But it wasn’t enough.

  
  


It never would be.

  
  


Kieran whispered up to his partner. 

  
  


“So it does. _Everything’s coming up roses, darling.”_

.

.

.

  
  


The duo bolted through the woods on Ardhalis’ outskirts. Kieran followed close behind Lauren, her jacket fluttering over her slender figure acting as his guide over the rooftops and then into the trees. They had traveled far from the city’s streetlights, and the only illumination amongst the foliage came from the gleaming crescent in the sky above them, which washed each being that it laid eyes on a pallid shade of grey.

  
  


The gaping cut on Kieran’s palm had begun to hum with a slight sting, the redness thickening as they moved. To say that it hurt was too base, and inaccurate. That day, it wasn’t a punishment.

  
  


But he couldn’t quite say it was a reward, either.

  
  


They stopped at a rock formation that was dressed with a waterfall, the rapids churning in a pool below. Lauren began to step across the various stones embedded in the waters, her shoes hitting each rock in a way that suggested that she’d taken that route many times before.

  
  


She turned back, and gestured to Kieran. “Don’t go slipping on me, now.”

  
  


Kieran mimicked her steps, arriving on the other edge of the bank with ease. Lauren ducked behind the waterfall’s misty curtain, vanishing into the dark of the crevice.

  
  


_What’s gone so wrong with me, where I’m willingly following the city’s deadliest assassin into the dark?_

  
  


After a few paces, the tunnel was surprisingly illuminated by a glow from a source further down the path. A barred iron door, miraculously unrusted and reminiscent of a jail cell, was concealed rearwards of one such pile of rocks. How ironic it looked to see Lauren rest her hand on the door, and open it with a sense of ease and pleasure.

The gate didn’t emit even the ghost of a creak as it swung open. Lauren leaned back on it, and gestured to Kieran to enter. “After you.”

  
  


_What else do I have to lose?_

  
  


Crossing through the gates, Kieran found himself standing in a cavernous space, lit with a chandelier that had somehow been hoisted up into the ceiling, where candles flickered among the stalactites. He was standing on a drawbridge of sorts, which led into a sparring pit, ringed with a plethora of weapons racks. An area that resembled a study rested dormant to the side.

  
  


Lauren walked across the pit, removing her jacket and tossing it to the side. She almost sounded melancholic as she spoke. “Home, sweet home.”

  
  


“I don’t know what to say. I have just been led to the den of the Purple Hyacinth.”

  
  


“Would you stop talking about her as if she’s not me?” Lauren shuffled through one of the racks on the opposite end of the cavern.

  
  


“Her or you, I’m stunned by the taste in interior decor. Absolutely stunning.”

  
  


“I appreciate the compliment.” Suddenly, Lauren reeled to face him, releasing a shimmering blade from her grasp. It flew towards Kieran at immeasurable speed, but not unpredictably so.

  
  


Kieran’s fingers met the knife’s bolster with such force that it pushed him back a step. _“What the-”_ He spat. _“Two minutes! It’s been two minutes!”_

  
  


Lauren laughed, a blithe sound that rose from deep within her chest. “Why do you think I brought you here? Shall we test your skills?”

  
  


“Hey! Don’t forget how I defeated you, just last night.”

  
  


“It would do you well to remember that I wasn’t going for the kill then.”

  
  


“Ah.” Kieran stepped onto the platform, approaching Lauren at a cautious pace. Without thinking, he tore his jacket and scarf from his body, letting the fabric flutter to the damp cave floor. He tossed his handgun on top of the rumpled pile, a deviant olive branch. He subconsciously undid the top few buttons of his collared shirt. He had always found them _so damn restricting._

  
  


Lauren charged towards him, brandishing her own blade as she seemed to float weightlessly towards her target. She seemed pleased with his compliance. “Tell me what you know about the Phantom Scythe.”

  
  


“The Phantom Scythe-” Kieran inhaled sharply, twisting his back to dodge the offense. “- is a crime syndicate that got its start a decade ago. An anonymous Leader and his thirteen Apostles.”

  
  


His body hummed as he moved with the assassin, pivoting and dodging her efforts. “They’ve grown since then, and claimed responsibility for what happened at the Allendale Train Station. Carved it right into the chest of a dead man.”

  
  


Kieran lunged at her, and she avoided him swiftly. His weight and momentum worked against him in such close combat. He tried to avoid getting too close to the cavern walls, missing his gun all the while. “I haven’t the foggiest idea how they’ve gotten such numbers.”

  
  


The two lunged at the same time, their knives meeting in the air. The force was evident, but almost gentle as the two locked eyes. Lauren broke the brief truce, and parried his blade to the side. “You’d be surprised what people would do for their own satisfaction. They said that their aim was to create a better world, one free of the social hierarchy that we know now. That was what lured in a lot of newcomers. Like rats to the Piper’s flute.”

  
  


Lauren pushed the strands of hair that had fallen from her ponytail out of her eyes before taking a slash at Kieran’s torso. “We’re down to seven Apostles. Only four of which are surviving originals. The rest were rounded up- they were slaughtered or executed. Some chose suicide. Seems that they didn’t require replacements.”

  
  


With a quick sweep of the legs, Kieran was cut down. He fell to the cave floor with a grunt. “How many members are there nowadays?”

  
  


“Hundreds, I’d say... That’s really all that the APD has on us? We’re worse off than I thought.”

  
  


Kieran sprang to his feet, catching his second wind. He knew so much more. He had the facts branded into his mind with an iron heated by that day’s flames. “Their first act of terrorism was the Allendale Train Station Bombings on November 17th, xx17.”

  
  


He retreated backwards as Lauren advanced. “Fell in time with the city’s inauguration of the new railway, which was financed by the late King Edward. He was killed in the explosion, along with much of Ardhalis’ government and nobility.”

  
  


Duck under the dagger. “243 deaths.” 

  
  


Counter with a foul swipe, then parry. “328 wounded.” 

Risk a slash. “And 176 reported missing.”

  
  


_His palms still held the scrapes._

  
  


Kieran had been through this mental process before, so often that it had become routine. Each small reminder of the incident provided a quick flash of woozy pain, and it pressed into his heart like the point of a rusted rapier. It was the agonizing feeling that no matter what he did, or how he acted, he would never, _ever_ belong. Because he was himself, and that was all the reason.

  
  


He let his guard down.

  
  


Lauren grabbed him by his shirt, kicking the back of his knees. He fell to the ground, his elbows hitting the cave floor, followed by his head. 

  
  


The Purple Hyacinth was able to render his years of training into the capabilities of a toddler, just beginning to function.

  
  


“Focus, White.” Lauren straddled him, effectively pinning him down. It was a familiar sensation. She took the blade to his neck, letting the tip trace the outlines of each of the bruises she had left on his neck the night prior. The point teased the edges of each of the blemishes; close enough to make him tense up, but lingering far enough from the wine-colored stains as to not inflict pain, only to taunt the possibility. It seemed to humor Lauren, watching Kieran glare up at her as she mocked him. He had somehow forgotten about those vexing marks when he had shed his layers. 

  
  


She pressed the point slightly into one bruise as it glided over his flesh. Kieran’s skin did not break, the cool metal raising gooseflesh in its wake. “If you can’t finish telling me what you know, then I can’t tell you about my lead.”

  
  


_A lead?_

  
  


Within mere minutes, Kieran White was closer to grasping answers than he had been in a decade.

  
  


The pulse of his throat bobbed as he swallowed, pushing the blade gently off of its course. “I got distracted. But go on.”

  
  


He settled his arms into place under his shoulders, attempting to push himself up. Lauren slid her knee up his chest, effectively pinning him again. “You’re built like an ox, but strength won’t get you much further with me. Where’s the _technique?”_

  
  


Kieran had sparred fervently throughout his police training. But compared to the assassin, his skills were lacking, and he knew it. He rolled onto his stomach, Lauren giving him some slack in the lead she had so patently binded him with. 

  
  


He pushed himself up, his triceps burning. “Anyways! The police were aware at that point that some sort of rebel group was forming. There were rumors that they would bomb the castle, so they placed extra security at that perimeter. The station came as a bit of a shock, understandably so.”

Kieran grappled the assassin’s waist, pulling her to the ground. She lay sprawled underneath him, seeming acquiescent until she twirled her dagger to rest comfortably against the veins of his wrist. 

  
  


It was a thorny truce, the barbs of it poised to take blood.

  
  


“By announcing themselves in clear opposition of the monarchy, the Phantom Scythe sent quite the message. They would grow, silently, infecting citizens like a plague. A sickness that would remain dormant, until the timing was right to strike the hierarchy down. The crown would be theirs, and theirs alone.”

  
  


Kieran stepped up, tucking his knife into his belt. “So, overall, it’s pretty heartwarming.”

  
  


Lauren looked to the cave wall. “The Leader’s motives are a mystery to all but himself. The allusions to such a utopia lured the desperate into his cause. The money and power is what made them stay, and attracted the more twisted.”

  
  


“So why did you join then? Don’t tell me killing is one of your guilty pleasures.”

  
  


Lauren laughed. “If we begin discussing guilty pleasures, then you’ll be here all night.”

  
  


_“Oh?”_ Kieran gasped, putting a hand to his chest. _“We've already moved into filthy banter? I love it!”_

  
  


Lauren paused, then looked at Kieran with a bored expression. “Rest assured you’re not one of them.”

  
  


“Can’t say you’re one of mine either, Miss _Rosenthal.”_

  
  


Challenges can be refracted with ease, in the right situation. Lauren didn’t respond to his jab.

  
  


Officer or not, Kieran was a Detective at heart. This woman and her words made his inner sleuth perk up in curiosity.

  
  


“How could-” Kieran grunted, moving in for a roundhouse kick. _“-anyone_ believe that bombing a train station and killing hundreds of innocent people could possibly be the birth of a utopia?”

  
  
  


Lauren ducked under his leg, grabbing his knife from his belt as she moved. The sparring match lurched to a standstill as she raised her dual weaponry.

  
  


The position would have been similar to an embrace, had she not been holding twin daggers to his neck from behind. She almost rested her chin on his shoulder as she murmured into his ear.

  
  


“It’s simple. They either believe it was necessary, or they just don’t care.”

  
  


The blades formed an undeviating cross over his neck, the sharp steel hitting his skin. Kieran let out a low whistle, raising his hands slowly in surrender. “Guess I’m dead, then.”

  
  


Lauren chuckled, releasing him from her grip with a shove. Kieran stumbled a couple of steps, swiping the sheen of sweat that had sprung over his brow. 

  
  


“Better start hitting the department gym if you’re going to survive this partnership, Officer.”

  
  


“I didn’t realize I was slacking.” Kieran laced his fingers and reached upwards, cracking his spine back into place. “So, what do _you_ know about the Leader?”

  
  


“I’ve been investigating him for years, and I’m just about as stumped as you are.” She gestured to the study, a large board covered in old photos and red thread illuminated by the candlelight standing ominously. The bulk of it was concealed behind a curtain that fluttered with the air that spiraled across the cavern walls. “But, I do know that he plans carefully around the deaths he orders.”

  
  


“So your targets are assigned based on specific reasons, then?”

  
  


“Very much so.” Lauren pocketed her blades and adjusted the laces of her boots, fiddling with the strings as she crouched. “They’re generally either supportive of the royal family, or are suspected of trying to betray the Phantom Scythe.”

  
  


“Okay.” Kieran paced up to the board, contrasting it from the journal he kept at home. “Let’s assume that the apostles are closest to the Leader. Our best shot at finding him would be taking them down first. If anyone knows his identity, it should be one of the four surviving originals.”

  
  


“Sure. If only the apostles’ identities were known.”

  
  


“Are you _kidding_ me?” Kieran sighed. “How the hell do you even function?”

  
  


“The apostles are still much more traceable than the leader. Each of them has a ‘territory’, or a specific type of operations that they cover.”

  
  


“So in order to find the head of each operation, we need to start with the people at the bottom.”

  
  


“Actually-” Lauren’s knife whistled past Kieran’s face before making its home within the disarray of dots and strings on her board. It penetrated the picture of a man, maybe in his early forties, with a sly grin. “We already have a lead.”

  
  


“Wonderful!” Kieran snarled, having staggered back to avoid the weapon. _“But I wouldn’t advise killing me before we follow it.”_

  
  


“Meet Gregory McTrevor!” She passed Kieran, wrenching the knife from the board and tapping the caricature’s cheek. “He was previously accused of illegal arms trading, but talked his way out of it. His income didn’t hurt, either.”

  
  


Lauren seemed to run over the wall’s contents in her mind, taking it all in with a contemplative gaze. “I’ve been watching him for a while now. I’m honestly surprised that I haven’t been ordered to take care of him yet.”

  
  


“Right! He was arrested by our Precinct multiple times on that charge.” Kieran stepped closer to the picture, the man’s harsh features siphoning old memories. “I actually brought him in once. Lawyered up and evaded charges by claiming lack of evidence. _Real gentleman.”_

  
  


The two stood side by side, attempting to make sense of the information. Lauren looked up at Kieran. “McTrevor isn’t the most subtle man. He thinks he’s invincible, but he leaves tracks. He’ll be our first target.”

  
  


She looked back at the board, and pushed a pin that had fallen askew deeper into the surface. “I propose we pay him a visit and try to find out a bit more about this operation. We just have to make sure he can’t report us later.”

  
  


“Naturally. Neutralizing him shouldn’t be too difficult a task.”

  
  


Kieran turned, intent on picking up his scarf from where he had dropped it haphazardly upon his entrance. After he retrieved the fleece from its spot on the rocks, he heard Lauren clear her throat behind him.

  
  


“Officer White. There’s one more thing that you should know about me before we delve into this deal of ours.”

  
  


“Alright?” 

  
  


_What else could she possibly have to say?_

  
  


Stony-eyed and solemn, Lauren met his questioning glance. “I’m the Purple Hyacinth. So, I assume that you already have your own ideas about me.”

  
  


Kieran nodded. “I’ve had an idea about you for a long while. As I’m sure many others do.”

  
  


She seemed to almost grimace under the accusation. “Just understand that I only kill people when I’m ordered, or when it’s the _only_ solution. Despite what you may think, or even _want,_ I have a code. And, I will not break it. Not for you, for this, for anything.”

  
  


Kieran’s eyes darkened. “I don’t doubt that.”

  
  


_A Code?_

  
  


He swallowed. “But know that I’m finished spreading poppy petals over rivers of blood that have long since dried. I want to finish this.”

  
  


The two of them, broken and bent on vengeance, united under an inviolable vendetta. The pair’s silence was charged with a precarious understanding. 

  
  


One does not plant spring daisies on frigid lands bereft of salvation. One does not protect each of their fragile, shivering petals from the hellish winds that are bound to tear them from their stems.

  
  


The duo’s breathing seemed to echo around the cavern as the night sustained. At least at that moment, they stood together, under the same moon’s gaze.

Lauren finally broke the silence.

“I’m glad that we’re on the same page. Now, we can get to work.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, Kieran wouldn't be Kieran if he left his shirt buttoned up like a PRUDE, would he?
> 
> It feels like it's been a while! Hopefully, this chapter is satisfying. Each chapter has been fun to write in its own way, but I have been especially excited to write this one for a while. Still working out how I manage dialogue and the like, but I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it!
> 
> It's been fun writing these alternate characters of Lauren and Kieran. I feel like Lauren, despite her still going through a lot and being in an awful position, would be a bit more self-assured and comfortable in her own skin. Kieran's personality remains as exuberant as ever, but these new types of guilt that he is wracked with is... interesting to explore.
> 
> I should be sleeping, but it's fine
> 
> Comments and Criticism are welcome and appreciated, as always! Feel free to leave em below ;)
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I love you all!  
> Everything's coming up roses, darlings <3


	7. Aves Nocte Clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lauren herself was a simmering storm, one with dangerous waters that Kieran had embarked on his swim into, assuming that he hadn’t yet drowned or been plunged into the depths.
> 
> He could only hope that if he played his cards right, the gentler tides would carry his body back to shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: the birds cry tonight.)_

**_November 14th, xx27 2:31 AM_ **

The birds were loud, that night.

  
  


It wasn’t that such a thing was a rarity, or a shock. The deal and decision had brought forth a feeling of ecstasy, one which faded as the distance between Kieran and the assassin grew. It gave way to the dread that was held by his deleterious new reality, though he couldn’t deny the freshness of it all.

Even so - the park held none of its former memories and pleasures as he stumbled along the footpaths, his state of dysphoria masking the pond, the benches, the birdbaths. The discordant lullaby of the birds themselves.

He was well acquainted with them, the sound. If he squinted, he would once again be twelve or thirteen, a tin bucket in his hand and the little creatures preening around his feet. Their cries were a second language that he could comprehend but never learned to speak.

_Crows,_ he thought. _Jackdaws._

In his turmoil, he waited. He listened. They were old habits, from before he ensconced himself in the traps of adulthood and the void of his vendetta, at the minimum.

_It might serve me, to convince myself that this is nothing new._

_._

_._

_._

By the time he reached his apartment, slamming himself into his empty hideaway, he could hardly see straight. 

  
  


The purchase Kieran found against his door was soon lost as he slid down its surface, landing in a disheveled pile of limbs. He pressed his back into the wood, anchoring himself to it in his panic. Kieran clasped his hand over his mouth, feeling for the steady ebb of his breath leaving his lips. He just needed to breathe. That would have been enough.

  
  


It would suffice to sit within the broken pieces, fragile glass amalgams of each of his regrets. They were sharp and sure, lying unkindly atop a bed of bloody geraniums. He could take to his heart the pain that he had willingly brought upon himself.

  
  


_“Well.”_ It came out without any timbre, only a coarse whisper or gasp of vapid air.

  
  


_I’ve really done it this time. Haven’t I?_

  
  


His solemn beat of silence spread itself thin. It haled past a minute, likely many minutes more.

  
  


Kieran shakily regained his footing, and approached his washroom without so much as a glance at his various belongings. He leaned on the vanity’s counter, allowing his eyes to follow the granite’s veins and crevices. Kieran let his fingers trail to the bottom drawer, full of old trinkets and supplies. His grip closed upon an old compact, full of creamy powder that must have been brighter and full of moisture at some point in the distant past. The metal was cold and biting, but too stubborn to warm in his palm. It had somehow worked its way into his belongings before one of his various migrations, but he had never brought himself to dispose of it. At least now, it would have some use.

  
  


Removing his scarf, he gazed with disdain at his bruised rivière.

  
  


Kieran’s physical reminders of his weaknesses were enough to provoke his own apathy. He didn’t particularly feel the need to keep them on display.

  
  


He dipped his finger into the powder, then pressed it to his neck. Kieran dabbed the zinc gently onto the contusions. The intensity of the reds and purples had become muted in the past day, but remained nonetheless, perhaps out of spite. He allowed his eyes to fix themselves into the mirror’s surface, noting that no pair glared back.

  
  


He hoped that one day, he could look at his reflection, and see more than smoke.

  
  


Kieran placed the compact gently on the counter, leaving the washroom to approach his bookcase. He grabbed his wanted tome, opening it to the newest page where the graphite boy peered up at him. That sheet, along with various others, would remain. Others would not be so fortunate.

  
  


That day had marked ten years since Kieran’s world had gone up in flames, setting his soul on fire. He considered his actions, and it almost felt like a somber farewell to an old friend.

  
  


He tried to pretend that the paper’s hisses and moans were inaudible as he pulled a page free from the spine.

.

.

.

**_November 14th, xx27 8:30 PM_ **

“So what do you think? Does it suit me?” Kieran swung the sword across his front, weighing the steel in his grip.

  
  


It was almost ironic. He was grasping a weapon that had reaped lives as though they were crops in a field, destined to die. Yet, he felt enough at ease to hold it, to fiddle with it like a child. His knuckles whitened against the shaft, brittle bone against the metal. 

  
  


Lauren glanced up from her desk, where she was sorting through various papers. “I don’t feel like I should feed your ego.”

  
  


Kieran slashed the sword in front of him, dismembering a phantom born of the cave’s shadows. “I don’t know. I think I’ll stick with my gun.”

  
  


He unceremoniously placed the weapon on the desk, and reached for his handgun, which was absent from the place he had set it earlier. He heard a familiar mechanical click. Lauren held it, the weapon poised to kill. 

  
  


She handled it with confidence, pointing the muzzle to his chest without hesitation, the safety flipped off. Despite her inexperience with the weapon, it wouldn’t take much effort for her to pull the trigger with glee, to leave him stained and crumpled on the cave floor.

  
  


Kieran remembered how dangerous she was, how his life was but a fragile source that she could extinguish with just a thought. It seemed that fear for his life would visit in waves. Lauren herself was a simmering storm, one with dangerous waters that Kieran had embarked on his swim into, assuming that he hadn’t yet drowned or been plunged into the depths.

He could only hope that if he played his cards right, the gentler tides would carry his body back to shore.

  
  


After a moment, she placed it back onto the surface, cushioning the gun’s landing with her finger as it dropped into place next to the sword. The two arms seemed to glare at each other, their metal surfaces reflecting against one another in their immobile encounter.

  
  


Lauren’s eyes lingered on the arrangement for a moment before she returned to her territory by their board. “I was able to do some recon on McTrevor earlier tonight. Judging by what I heard in the tavern, he’ll definitely be in his place of residence on our decided time. The… _operation_ shouldn’t be too difficult, so long as we act with haste.”

  
  


“True. But we need to grill the man for all he’s worth.” Kieran spoke carefully, not finding any more humor in their interaction. “Should all go according to plan, it’ll be the last and only time we can talk to him sans surveillance.”

“Not an issue.” Lauren’s lips moved without noise as she theorized silently. “I’m not going to pretend that this is foolproof... We need to get and keep the police under our fingers, and keep McTrevor and the Scythe oblivious.”

Kieran clasped his hands together behind him, the rolled cuffs of his shirt tightening over his forearms. “That’s a big deed. How can we be sure that they aren’t breathing down our necks?”

  
  


“Well, we know that the police are oblivious. And Officer, stop flattering the Scythe.”

  
  


He froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  
  


Lauren’s words dripped with resent. “They’re awful, sure. But the system is bastardized to begin with. Don’t expect its members to be without their flaws.”

  
  


Kieran nodded gravely. “I’m sure McTrevor will demonstrate this.”

  
  


The two of them looked to their board, the image of the man printed vividly in charcoal and ink. Lauren scoffed quietly. 

  
  


“Sure indeed.”

  
  


Kieran meandered through the hurricane of papers and scripts that littered the ground, setting himself down in the center of the disarray.

  
  


He stretched languidly, careful not to crease any of the litter. “This is a mess. But a fun one.”

  
  


_“Fun_ is one way to describe it. ” Lauren passed behind him, flipping through an old manuscript that she had grabbed from its freshly pinned home on the board. “Where did you keep all of these documents anyway?”

  
  


“I’ve kept them in decent condition. That’s all that matters.” Kieran’s tones were clipped and harsh. He picked up a pencil and began scribbling notes into the margins of a paper, not attempting to make eye contact.

  
  


The book from which the papers had come lay mangled on his apartment’s floor. The only contents that he had allowed to remain were a few stray drawings and unnecessary notes. He had taken all of the documents of substance with him, hoping to finally put them to use.

Lauren, for whatever reason, decided not to probe the possibilities. She seemed to know when one’s flames were too hot to need stoking. Or perhaps she recognized that his hearth had burned for far too long and with far too much fervor. Perhaps she could already see that the flame was too cold, barren with ashes beyond hope of reignition.

  
  


“Fair enough.”

.

.

.

  
  


**_November 14th, xx27 11:50 PM_ **

_“Hello, Officers!”_

  
  


“No. Too unaffected.”

  
  


“Fine… _Good Evening, Officers!”_

  
  


“Assuming I can arrive at the office when I intend to, they’ll be reading it in the morning. Change it.”

  
  


Kieran hesitated, then snapped his fingers in realization. _“Good day, Officers!”_

  
  


“That’s suitable, I think.” Lauren shook her head. “And now, the real work begins.”

  
  


The officer simpered. “Don’t worry, I won’t misspell anything. I know ink is expensive these days!”

  
  


Lauren frowned at the mock placation. “You could take this more seriously. Realize that we’re fighting fire with fire.”

  
  


Kieran poised his hands over the typewriter, his gloved fingertips just brushing the surface of the ivory keys. 

  
  


“It’s more like _playing_ with fire. And it’s like you said. If we burn, we burn together.”

  
  


She entertained it, her normally placid expression teasing the possibility of a smile. “We burn together, don’t we?”

  
  


Kieran leaned back in his chair, flashing a catlike grin. 

  
  


“And it shall be a pleasure to burn with you, darling.”

.

.

.

  
  


**_November 15th, 7:30 AM_ **

“Can I ask what’s on your mind?” Kieran jolted back into consciousness as Will slowed his pace to match his. “You’ve barely spoken since we’ve left headquarters.”

  
  


Kieran scoffed, letting his voice lower within the company of his coworkers. “Just get to the point. You think I’m plotting a murder, don’t you?”

  
  


The lieutenant chuckled. “You would’ve told Grumpy Cat! Wouldn’t want him to be jealous, would you?”

  
  


_“Shut up.”_ Randall scowled from behind them. The Eleventh Precinct was grouped in the center of the city street, slowly separating off from each other as they reached their patrol districts. 

  
  


“I’m fine,” Kieran laughed. “Not everyone is physically capable of chugging two liters of coffee every morn-”

  
  


His quip cut off by the rising sound of shouts from the square. The officers tensed up and plowed through the street to inspect the scene.

  
  


The angel statue in the center of the square stood as a monument, albeit quite imposing. A man had suspended himself upon one of her wings, gesturing rapidly with his free arm to the gathering mass below. His voice was laced with aggression.

  
  


_“It’s already been ten years!_ Ten years, and the police have found _nothing_ on the Allendale Tragedy!”

  
  


The week’s discourse was evident in each face on that street. The people shuffled uncomfortably in place, whispering to one another. Kieran heard rumours and gossip from the crowd, the name of a particular deceased socialite flying around substantially.

  
  


“You can count on one hand the number of suspects that they’ve neutralized. And now, the Purple Hyacinth has reappeared! Are we supposed to feel _safe?_ Hell, is this even _protection?”_

  
  


The man snarled. “Don’t we deserve better?”

  
  


Murmurs of agreement traveled through the crowd.

  
  


“For the past decade, Ardhalis has been dominated by the Phantom Scythe! It’s only a matter of time until the royal family is attacked, and everything King Philip built is destroyed! The police are supposed to protect you!”

  
  


He pointed at the Eleventh Precinct, suddenly isolated within the surging oceans of people.

  
  


“Here they are! Just parading around like peacocks! They could be arresting the culprits responsible for these atrocities… _Instead, this Purple Hyacinth monster is still running free!”_

  
  


The Purple Hyacinth was indeed running free, at the fault or benefit of Kieran and Kieran alone.

  
  


_“They’ve been chasing the Leader for ten years and don’t have even a single clue as to who he is!_ Aren’t you tired of fearing the streets, and feeling as though your family could be next? He could be anywhere! _Anyone! Disguised as one of us innocent citizens!”_

  
  


It wasn’t the man’s words that were eerie. Nor the people shouting in the square. It was the _speed._

  
  


The _speed_ at which people turned on each other with paranoia. The speed at which people went from respect to rioting.

  
  


“Come on team, move!” Will waved the officers on. Two men closeby had begun to fight, and Kieran rushed to deescalate the situation. He struggled to pull one of them back as he thrashed, Grumpy Cat exerting similar effort on the other. 

  
  


_“Get off me, you bastard!”_ The man drove his elbow into Kieran’s jaw, sending him reeling but not enough to loosen his grip. The tension suddenly ebbed and numbed. The man, Kieran, and the crowd itself all collectively looked to a point.

  
  


_“ORDER!”_

  
  


A man, clad in a mask and fur, had made his way to the base of the statue. The crowd was instantly sedated. Tristan Sinclair, Chief of Police, tended to have that effect on people to the point of laudibility.

  
  


His voice carried through the crowds, echoing off of each storefront and building. The volume he was able to summon effortlessly rivaled the previous cacophony. “Ladies and gentleman, please! I understand your dissatisfaction.”

  
  


He looked up to the statue, and at the man dangling from one of the angel’s wings. “As you said, sir, this criminal organization has been allowed to run free for _too long._ I promise you, you are _not_ the only ones feeling frustrated!”

  
  


He looked upon each member of the crowd, isolating each one as an individual. “Each of us here has a family to protect! All of us, be it officer or civilian, want to purge this evil that has tarnished our city! And as Chief of Police, I _personally_ assure you that we will prioritize _your_ safety and _your_ wellbeing over all else!”

  
  


It was possibly some alien feeling or inhibition that made Kieran look back at that moment.

  
  


How ironic. The Scythe’s bloodiest assassin was present, enjoying the show. The glimpse he caught of her crimson hair was unmistakable, a ruby amidst a monochrome rockpile.

  
  


“This morning, the King’s right hand, Sir Rhymsel, came to speak with me to establish a plan of action. Steps _will_ be taken, and we will release these plans to the public as soon as possible!”

  
  


“But, fellow citizens, if we _truly_ want to rid ourselves of the Phantom Scythe, we must _unite_ our forces and not give way to such discord between us!”

  
  


The rebel nodded. **“Right! None of us here is part of that filthy organization.** We must not stoop to their level!”

  
  


Kieran ground his teeth. The falsity could only hold one meaning, one that made his blood boil. He held the knowledge of the man’s affiliation, but was left utterly powerless.

  
  


Sinclair smiled. “Yes, and we must all stand together! Otherwise, we are no better than those worthless criminals! Remember, we are here to protect you and we _are_ listening. Make sure to report any information you think could be useful to the police. “

  
  


_And yet, they were still so blind._

  
  


“Now, please disperse and go about your business. Thank you.”

  
  


The man climbed down from his spot on the statue. **“Of course. I’m at your service, sir. You have my gratitude.”**

  
  


There was no doubt about it. He was a Phantom Scythe Member. As the crowd scattered, Kieran released the man he had apprehended, who stood in shock for a moment before leaving without a word. He then approached the Chief of Police.

  
  


Will had approached Sinclair first, his face red behind the cover of his mask. In the presence of his superior, the lieutenant’s sense of authority melted into naught. Kieran was sad to observe the lack of confidence that Will held for himself firsthand. 

  
  


His head was ducked, and it seemed to be taking all of his effort not to mumble. “Thank you so much, sir! You just diffused a riot. We’re the only patrol unit on scene, I don’t know what-”

  
  


“It’s my job, Lieutenant Hawkes. We’re here to maintain peace. We should never answer with violence unless absolutely unavoidable.”

  
  


Taking the lull of silence that followed as an opportunity, Kieran approached the two of them. “Chief Sinclair.”

  
  


The man turned to face him. “Ah, Officer White! It’s been a while.”

  
  


Having been acknowledged, Kieran began to stumble over his words. Each syllable took more effort than it should have. His intentions tumbled up from his core, vocables tugged out hastily on a silver string. “Yes. Listen, that man… I think we should keep him for interrogation, just out of circumstance.”

  
  


“Why do you say that?”

  
  


_Because if we don’t, we’ve damned ourselves in the most humiliating way possible._

  
  


Kieran tried to collect himself. “He incited a riot. We can’t possibly let him off the hook that easily…”

  
  


Will turned to Kieran, looking a bit exasperated. “We really should side with the people on this. Arresting the man would send all of the wrong signals. There’s no need to toss oil into the fire.”

  
  


Sinclair nodded slowly. “I agree with the Lieutenant.”

  
  


He wrung his hands, trying to speak his way around the present issues. “I’m aware that the situation is delicate. But what if the speech was meant to draw attention from… something else? Something perhaps to do with the Phantom Scythe?”

  
  


The chief smiled at Kieran knowingly. “We can’t arrest someone without due cause! Of course, we could keep him in a 48 hour hold, but that would anger the people more than anything. It’s in our best interest to let him walk free today.”

  
  


“But he _lied_ earlier. I just-”

  
  


“Officer White. **I know you must be right.** But to open an investigation, we need _solid proof._ You, of all people, should know that.”

  
  


Kieran sighed. 

  
  


_I let personal resentment guide my actions. It cost me my rank as a detective, my self respect, my credibility. I still have no answers. And I sure as hell know that my one mistake is a sword dangling over my head._

  
  


As if sensing how his words had stung, the Chief smiled gently, as if Kieran was a child who needed pacification. “How have you been lately? Getting along okay?”

  
  


Sinclair was well aware of the time of year. Any bystander could see that Kieran’s soul held genuine happiness, that he explored the opportunities that his life had to offer. Nonetheless, the cold season always brought a wave of melancholy that he couldn’t seem to shake. The annual desolation was at no fault of anyone but himself.

  
  


He was well aware of this as he responded. “I’ve been getting by. I always do.”

  
  


“That’s good to hear. We’ll keep an eye out for that man, and any further disturbances. Have a good night, Officer.”

  
  


Chief Sinclair turned towards the group, raising his arm in salutation. “Goodnight, all!”

  
  


The crowd and officers dispersed. The end of the patrol had fallen in time with the averted crisis.

  
  


Kieran’s interaction with the Chief was disappointing, but not at all unexpected.

  
  


_I’ve spent years refining my analytical skills, just to prove my “hunches” to others. So that I could finally put my ability to use and make a difference._

  
  


_But all of that, and for what?_

  
  


_It was all undone by a single mistake. And now, my ability is useless. There were two flagrant criminals in the crowd, and I couldn’t do anything._

  
  


_The members of the Phantom Scythe walk the streets knowing that the police are too afraid to arrest them. They treat each citizen as a toy, and Ardhalis as their damn dollhouse._

  
  


_This whole situation is ridiculous. They’re always one step ahead, and we still stand idle._

  
  


_The worst part of this is that I'm replicating my mistake tenfold._

  
  


Kieran looked to the edge of the square, where he saw Lauren. She was dressed in a simple pallid blue, nary stealing any of the attention that her amber eyes called for. Her eyelashes draped downwards as she met his gaze and nodded. The deed had been done.

  
  


It was almost tame. 

  
  


_Everything was falling into place, at least._

.

.

.

**_November 15th, xx27 11:05 AM_ **

“... Kieran?”

  
  


The whispers didn’t register as anything but breath in his ear.

  
  


_“Kieran.”_

  
  


He felt a tug behind him as his hair fell loose around his shoulders. Kym slammed her coffee mug onto the desk beside him, and Kieran broke from his stupor as he jumped backwards in his chair.

  
  


He groaned as his bangs fell over his exhausted face. _“What, Ladell?”_

  
  


“Did the sandman pass you by last night?” Kym wrapped the white ribbon around her fingers, shaking her head. “Honestly. You look like you’ve just been pulled from a grave.”

  
  


“You should know that that’s pretty typical of me.”

  
  


“Of course. But seriously, what were you up to? You looked pretty awful in the square this morning, too.”

  
  


Kieran rubbed his stinging eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I just have a lot on my mind.”

  
  


“You can talk about it if-”

  
  


“You know, I’m not the only corpse here.” Kieran snatched the ribbon from Kym’s grip and gestured to Will, who had just walked up to his desk. His hand rested heavily on his face, and he gripped his own mug as if it was his sole lifeline. “Ask the Lieutenant why we could easily hide a body in his eyebags.”

  
  


_“Williame! You too?”_ Kym shot up from her position, inspecting Will’s exhausted frame. “Did you two decide to astral project yourselves into Hell together? Should I feel excluded?”

  
  


Will tightened up as Kym fixed a fold in his collar. “I had a lot on my mind too.”

  
  


Kym scoffed. “You two are such drama queens.”

  
  


The two of them shouldn’t have expected any sympathy from Kym Ladell. At least it wasn’t something that either of them desired at that moment.

  
  


The background noise of the Precinct had a smothered sound to it, as if Kieran’s colleagues were submerged underwater. He capped his pen, the dampened sounds interrupted by the familiar creaks of the Precinct’s mailcart.

  
  


“Captain Hermann.” The mailman bowed his head as he held out a dark envelope. “This came for you while you were out on patrol, sir.”

  
  


Kieran saw the letter change hands in his peripheral vision as he tied his ribbon tightly in his hair. Hermann walked briskly to his office, the door slamming closed with a finality.

  
  


The door reopened seconds later, counterintuitively.

  
  


“Wait!” Hermann charged over to the mailman, who had just turned to leave the floor. _“Where did you get this?”_

  
  


The mailman startled. “I don’t know, Captain. It was on my trolley when I arrived this morning.”

  
  


Hermann’s face was twisted in a novel expression. His face had gone pale, his mouth tightened in a mix of what was obviously anger, and perhaps an iota of panic. “Desroses.”

  
  


Lila looked up with a start. The whole office had feigned oblivion, and had been pretending not to hear the exchange. “Yes, Captain?”

  
  


“Call March. Tell him I’m on my way up, and it’s important.”

.

.

.

  
  


**_November `15th, xx27 12:07 PM_ **

For the next hour, the Precinct was quiet, save for the occasional attempt at chatter or the shuffling of papers. They had collectively decided to not acknowledge the elephant in the room, leaving Kieran alone with his paperwork and beating heart.

  
  


It was almost relieving when the echoes of footsteps on the stairwell interrupted their silence. The doors to the office swung open, a livid Hermann leading the way with March in his wake. _“Whose work is this?”_

  
  


Most of the officers pricked their heads up in interest, while Randall just looked annoyed at the steady flow of disruptions that had been gracing the office thus far. 

  
  


“Does it _look_ like I’m in the mood for pranks?” Hermann gestured to the envelope clenched tightly in his gloved hand. “I demand to know who is responsible for this!” 

  
  


Kieran looked down at his papers slowly.

  
  


“It has to be someone in this office. Nobody else has access to the archivist’s trolley.” He glanced at each of his officers, trying to siphon a guilty confession from one of them. Kieran met his gaze with ease. “I’ve asked the investigation unit, and nobody claimed it there.”

  
  


Kym spoke up tentatively. “It isn’t looking like it was any of us, either. Could somebody have slipped it in while we were all on riot patrol?”

  
  


“It’s possible, but unlikely. The office was never empty.”

  
  


She crossed her arms. “What is it anyway?

  
  


March spoke up, his expression dark. “It’s a file on Gregory McTrevor.”

  
  


Randall leaned forward in his chair. “Isn’t that the merchant that the Investigation Unit keeps trying to pin down?”

  
  


“Yes. And apparently…” Hermann sighed.

  
  


_Lauren had done her job well._

  
  


“Apparently, this file is the missing piece we’d need to lock him up for good.”

  
  


The office’s interest was ignited in an instant.

  
  


“What?” Kieran set his pen down. He was absolutely paranoid, no doubt. But the situation was still somehow amusing.

  
  


“My guys spent months trying to get dirt on them with no luck.” March gestured to the members of his division who lingered behind him, burnt out and confused. “If the evidence here is proven true, then this was one hell of a job.”

  
  


“There weren’t any clues left in the file? Signatures, handwriting, anything?” Kieran asked.

  
  


“Nothing. Everything is typed, down to the cutesy little cover letter.” Exasperated, Hermann turned to March. “I want this file analyzed by our best specialists, verify every single claim. It may look convincing, but I don’t trust this.”

  
  


Kym shook her head. “What does the letter say?”

  
  


Hermann stuck his fingers into the envelope, retrieving a piece of dove-white paper. Sighing, he began to recite its contents. _“Good day, Officers…”_

_._

_._

_._

  
  


_In this folder, you will find everything that you will need to send Gregory McTrevor to his final incarceration. Each of his crimes, the names of his collaborators, proof of payments, all in order._

_Instructions have been provided on how to trace any evidence that couldn’t fit inside this envelope. You have the day to verify that everything here is in accordance with what is already known of Mr. McTrevor._

_As for his arrest, you will find him in his home at 24 Palmore Street, on November 15th, at precisely 11:11 pm. Not a minute more, not one less._

_It is imperative that the contents of this envelope remain under the Seal of Secrecy until that time. The Phantom Scythe has eyes and ears everywhere. If its contents are revealed or leaked, the whole operation could be compromised. You will lose your only chance to stop Gregory McTrevor._

_._

_._

_._

  
  


Hermann adjusted his fingers on the paper, his grip tight but cautious. “Apparently, the writer holds his own theatrics in very high esteem. _Hilarious and pretentious.”_

  
  


Kieran snorted into his mug, choking silently on his coffee. 

  
  


March looked at the letter from over Hermann’s shoulder. “From what I’ve seen in this file, this is the work of a professional. It has to be someone with precise knowledge of our investigations on McTrevor.”

  
  


Will craned his head, concerned. “Is it signed?”

  
  


Hermann frowned. “It is.”

  
  


_-Lune_

.

.

.

  
  


“We’ve combed over the entire file, Captain. Everything is correct.” March's normally clever expression had sombered over the course of the afternoon, like a swatch of leather that had been left for dead under heavy rain and sun. He stared at the papers in his hands. “Truthfully, I’ve never seen anything like this. No one at the station did this, I guarantee you.”

  
  


Kieran picked up his coat from his desk. He had somehow gotten through the myriad of papers he was assigned, all the while eavesdropping on the Captain. He was out of the woods, nearly. “What if it’s a trap, laid out by someone in the Phantom Scythe? Or working closely with its members?”

  
  


“Officer White is right,” Hermann scowled. “I will not let this ‘Lune’ criminal dictate the actions of the Ardhalis Police Department. There is no legal way he could’ve compiled this!”

  
  


March looked to Hermann. “Captain, I’ve been working on McTrevor’s case for five years. Everyone knows he’s a crook with probable ties to the Phantom Scythe. His wealth protects him, but this time there’s not enough gold in the world to bail him out.”

  
  


Will sided with the detective. “It might be a trap, but we’re the APD. We know McTrevor’s guilty of everything he’s been accused of, and we have everything that we could possibly need to arrest him tonight. Isn’t it our responsibility to follow up on this?”

  
  


Hermann turned to enter his office. “Then we should go arrest him. _Now.”_

  
  


March called back. “No, I want to wait for the time that Lune specified.”

  
  


The captain froze, turning to face him. “You want to follow his instructions? _Why?”_

  
  


“He was right about everything else. There must be a reason for the deadline!” March huffed. “Wouldn’t it be wiser for us to respect it? And maybe, if Lune’s there, we can catch him in the act too.”

  
  


The plan seemed to appeal somewhat to Hermann. “Fine. It’s your time to waste. March, you’re in charge of this. Gather your team.”

  
  


He turned to face the Precinct. “And this exceptional incident will remain strictly confidential until the case is solved- Until McTrevor is either behind bars or back home in his bed. _Is that clear?”_

  
  


They collectively assured their silence. _“Yes, sir!”_

  
  


“And March, that envelope didn’t just _fly_ onto the mail trolley. Someone must have put it there, and _I want that person found.”_

  
  


March nodded grimly, and the office tentatively returned to their everyday monotonies. But Kieran remained alert, waving to Kym and Will as he made his way to the exit. Everything was falling into place.

  
  


These moments, these introspections, were only the kindling for what Kieran and his murderess companion were working towards.

  
  


But any small victory would do.

  
  


A jackdaw, who cried from an undisclosed spot in the trees, seemed to agree.

_._

.

.

  
  


**_November 15th, xx27 10:25 PM_ **

The candle in McTrevor’s hands burned steadily against the frigid whispers of the winter night air. The emptiness of the house wasn’t what sent a chill over him. The study door at the top of the manor’s staircase was open, ever so slightly, a narrow beam of light peeking through onto the dark hallway. Despite his better judgement, he pushed the door open entirely and observed the room in its candidness. 

  
  


He noted the books placed on the shelves as he had left them, the drawers of his file cabinet closed. As his eyes traveled to the window, the problem arose.

  
  


Two chairs faced each other at his bay window, the light of the moon hitting twin figures who leaned on the furniture. There was an air of sophistication about them, but underneath there was something more sinister. Carnal. 

  
  


They were twin bats, a pair who had finally spread their wings to take their maiden journeys, no longer confined to the caverns that they had grown so accustomed to. The two of them had been waiting for his arrival. 

  
  


Kieran and Lauren looked up to their prey in tandem. 

  
  


_“Good evening, sir.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Lune time...
> 
> EDIT: Jackdaws symbolize death. But they also symbolize that from death comes rebirth, and that one who is trapped in the darkness won't be for long. They are bad omens, but if you live to tell of one, then you are blessed with renewed energy, wisdom, and foresight.
> 
> Shoutout to Jackdaw's Cry on the PH discord for having a cool username! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Sorry for the radio silence on my part! A weird mix of events and circumstances in my life made for a big-time bout of writer's block. I hope that this chapter was worth the wait!
> 
> This chapter was... bouncy. I literally can't think of any other word for it. I messed with the PH timeline a little bit so that we could get some Assassin Lauren action a little earlier than we normally would. This chapter was me picking up the pieces. I also always wondered how Kieran and Lauren worked together in their first few days as Lune, so hopefully, those snippets were entertaining!
> 
> I'd like to acknowledge Lune for a moment here. They prepared everything that they needed for McTrevor's interrogation in basically one day. EXCUSE ME??? HOW???
> 
> (January edit: maybe they didn't. shhh)
> 
> Thank you to the lovely Lanx (aka [snowflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowflight/pseuds/snowflight) ) for helping me with the sword/gun scene (which I LOVE) and for beta-reading the first, very scary draft of this chapter. Hopefully, it isn't as Hilarious and Pretentious as it was before! Much love <3
> 
> Special thanks to Strawberry Pocky and my treadmill for being there for me during the times when I couldn't think of what to write... as you can tell it's time for me to wrap this AN up
> 
> Comments and Criticism are loved and welcome! Feel free to drop your thoughts below :)
> 
> See you in the next chapter! Sending my love to you all <3


	8. Acta, non Verba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lauren raised an eyebrow as the two of them shared a look of mutual disgust. A beat passed, and Kieran relented. “Nothing permanent. And try not to damage any vital organs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: actions, not words.)_

Kieran had always respected the precautions that were deemed important in his line of work. His department aimed to conceal identities and ensure a necessary illusion of safety while on the job. The uniforms were undoubtedly comfortable and suitable for use. 

  
  


The traditional masks, on the other hand, were a subject of much speculation by each and every generation of newcomers to the Precinct. The lore of how they remained plastered to the officers’ faces, as told by his superiors, had always been hazy at best and outrageous at worst. 

  
  


When he began to wear one of his own, his concerns were rendered unreasonable.

  
  


Never had a problem emerged, with the exception being a certain encounter with a particular assassin. Its adherence was shocking, and he was surprised by how it wasn’t as uncomfortable as he would have thought.

  
  


What shocked him most about the predicament, however, was the lack of visual obstruction caused by the mask. As an officer, he needed to be able to see from all angles, to take in his surroundings with avian perception and speed. So it was suitable.

  
  


While wearing his mask, he was of service to many but slave to none. He was one of an entity, him and his comrades unified by something intangible. Their identities were not only assured protection, but nearly subsumed. Nothing was supposed to be personal, nor political. All that they carried with them was the desire to maintain peace and impartiality.

  
  


The white mask was absent from Kieran’s current wardrobe, for obvious reasons. In relative accordance to his partner, he wore a dark coat, a dress shirt and pants, a black hat and leather shoes. In place of his typical disguise, a black cloth covered his mouth, leaving his eyes open and unobstructed.

  
  


No matter how small his mask’s detriment was, he found that he could see just fine without it. Shocking as it was, Kieran still cursed himself for having that realization.

  
  


That much should have been obvious from the start.

  
  


As Lauren held the criminal’s mouth closed with her gloved hand,  McTrevor struggled against the ties around his waist and wrists, to no effect. They held him taut against a wooden chair, the light from his bay window shining down on his back, leaving his face doused in shadow.

  
  


Kieran held a glass bottle above his gaze, twirling it by the neck and letting the amber liquid inside slosh against the clear walls. It was one of many vials housed inside the study’s liquor cabinet, which seemed to be chronically unlocked. He had opened it to search for suspicious contents, but the only aspect to be chary of was how undiluted the beverage seemed to be. Even corked, the scent from the bottle was unpleasantly numbing.

  
  


He wasn’t stupid or weak-willed enough to tamper with the glass, despite what Kym might have thought of his nonexistent drinking tendencies. Still, he couldn’t help but suppose that if he were drunk, or lightly buzzed at the minimum, the whole situation would feel less unsavory. 

  
  


“Mr. McTrevor, I am going to remove my hand now. You will not shout, you will not make any fuss, you will not draw any attention to yourself. Are we clear?” Lauren spoke with a sort of monotony in her voice, as though this situation was a common one and had repeated itself a plethora of times. This kind of encounter was old news to her, never quite hot off the press. Yet, in light of their new arrangement, she remained vigilant.

  
  


She drew her hand back, and her captive’s harsh whispers began the moment her glove receded. “What the hell do you want? Who sent you? You’re here for money, aren’t you?”

  
  


The assassin maneuvered to the chair’s back, tugging the ropes to test their tightness. “We’ll have nothing to do with your filthy money. We’re here on our own agendas, and just want to chat.”

  
  


The man scowled.  _ “Bullshit. _ I’m tied to a chair, for God’s sake!”

  
  


Putting a finger to her lips, Lauren’s eyes were anything but consoling. “This won’t get nasty, as long as you don’t make it so. We only ask for your cooperation.”

  
  


La Lune had begun their quest for answers, one with dangers that could quickly escalate.

  
  


Kieran beckoned to Lauren from the corner of the study, and she thankfully obliged.

  
  


He leaned in towards his partner, lowering his voice to a whisper. “As satisfying as it would be to draw some blood here, let’s not get violent. I’m still an officer, and that wouldn’t bode well with my job nor my mental wellbeing.”

  
  


“You’re insinuating that I want to hurt him?” Lauren hissed, ducking to avoid McTrevor’s glare. “Now, your adherence to your code is  _ respectable,  _ but I’m not leaving this room without answers. We’ve worked diligently to arrange this, and I won’t allow it to go to waste. Even if that means spilling blood.”

  
  


Behind them, their captive continued to waste his breath on his warped alibi and scores of empty threats, only half-heard by the duo. “-yet you leave me alone? _ Are the two of you insane?” _

  
  


_ Insane? Don’t remind me. _

  
  


Lauren raised an eyebrow as the two of them shared a look of mutual disgust. A beat passed, and Kieran relented. “Nothing permanent. And try not to damage any vital organs.”

  
  


Through the taut creases of her mask, a smirk formed on her face. “Agreed.”

  
  


McTrevor’s voice continued to echo off of the walls and ring against the windows.  _ “What do you want? Listen to me and we can resolve this peacefully!” _

  
  


The assassin approached her prey once again, leaving Kieran to reflect on their rickety pact. The little agreements and understandings that they decided upon continued to stack up upon each other like a precarious tower. 

  
  


Her shadow fell across the man’s face as she towered over his bound figure. “We’ve recently taken an interest in your comings and goings with the lovely fellows of the Phantom Scythe.”

  
  


Flinching as if he had been slapped, McTrevor sported an expression that feigned shock in lieu of his usual sneer.  **“Pardon me! I would never-”**

  
  


Kieran slammed the vial onto the desk. Balancing it precariously on the surface’s edge, he began to count on his fingers. “Money Laundering. Conspiracy to murder. Treason. Organization of prostitution rings. Illegal weapons trafficking. Tax evasion- need I go on? I can fill both hands and more.”

  
  


_ How is this man not behind bars? These lies he tells… My ability isn’t even necessary. _

  
  


McTrevor sneered.  **“I have no clue what you’re speaking of.”**

  
  


Kieran laughed, throwing his hands in the air. “My mistake!  _ Why are we even here?” _

  
  


“The police can’t pin me down, I’m that powerful. What makes you think that you can?”

  
  


Lauren fixed the bottle where Kieran had left it, then returned to her spot in front of the merchant. She shot a look at her partner that reverted him back to silence. “We know. Our eyes have never once left you. You were able to worm your way out of sentencing in the past. But this time, hire the best lawyer. Pool your money. It will mean nothing in comparison to the evidence stacked against you tonight.”

  
  


Before McTrevor could open his mouth, undoubtedly to exchange some retort or reminder of his self-assured hubris, Kieran leaned over the wooden desk. “Tell us more about this current operation of yours. Illegal trafficking, correct? You’re smuggling weapons into Ardhalis, and I’m certain they’re not on their way to the militia.”

  
  


Both the captive and capteur acknowledged Kieran with a glare, for desperately contrasting reasons. McTrevor locked eyes with Lauren, his voice dripping with defiance. “What if I don’t tell you? What happens then?”

  
  


The assassin reached into her cloak, pulling a petite but menacing blade from its sable depths. “I suppose we’ll have to take more drastic measures.”

  
  


McTrevor laughed at the weapon. “If a knife could make me talk, I wouldn’t still be here. This isn’t my first interrogation.”

  
  


“There’s no use denying your involvement in the operation anymore. That much is certain. Cooperate, and you and the ones you care about will live for a bit longer.”

  
  


“You have nothing on me. I live alone, I’m not married, and  **I have no children. I’m the only one who matters here. You can’t blackmail me.”**

  
  


Kieran’s attention was caught. McTrevor did have ties, they just needed to be found. He left the site of the exchange, desperate to uncover them. 

  
  


“Shame. I’m tired of hearing you speak, though.” She held the knife’s point between lips, pressing slightly into the flesh with intention.

  
  


“I’m watching,” Kieran called.

  
Lauren scowled. “Be quiet and let me do my job. **I really enjoy this part.”**

  
  


_ And so the assassin, at least for a second, becomes human once more. _

  
  


Kieran looked up from his search, shaking his head at McTrevor. “What a lonely little pathetic scumbag you are! You’ve been working under the Seventh Apostle’s orders, right?”

  
  


**“No, who’s that?”**

  
  


Lauren pressed the blade into his bottom lip, a bead of blood rising to kiss the steel’s delicate point.  **“Sorry!** But the inconsistencies, McTrevor! Let’s say that every time you attempt to cover your extremely evident tracks, this  _ little blade  _ will go a bit further. I assume you like possessing tonsils and would prefer to keep them intact. What are you in charge of?”

He grimaced, sucking on the blood flow.  **“I don’t know!”**

  
  


“Not a wise response.” Kieran heard the metal scraping McTrevor’s teeth, beckoning his jaw to open, from across the room. That was enough.

  
  


He walked up behind Lauren, approaching where she knelt in front of McTrevor. He went to reach for her shoulder as she adjusted her position. It had been a mistake to approach her as she worked, that much was evident by her reaction. With a doe-eyed look, her hand jerked lightly, dragging the blade downwards. The sharp edge split his lip down the center and continued its cruel journey to the base of his chin.

  
  


He snarled, finally relenting. “Alright, I’ll talk!  _ Shit!” _

  
  


Lauren’s expression changed to one of delight as she looked to McTrevor. “Wonderful!”

  
  


He bit at the wound.  The blood ran in a single rivulet over his lip, down his chin, dripping onto the collar of his nightclothes .  “It looks like you did your research, so you must know that I’m a merchant and accountant.  **I only handle transactions for him. Legal ones, of course.”**

  
  


Lauren nodded. “With whose help?”

  
  


“I’ve been a merchant in this city for the past thirty years.  **I don’t need anyone’s help.”**

  
  


She stood up. “How have you been receiving the apostle’s orders?”

  
  


**“Through letters, every time. Each one was burned immediately after reading.”**

  
  


Kieran began to dig through one of the room’s file cabinets. Any proof whatsoever was likely concealed in places that would seem secure to the common eye. He struck gold when he found a loose photograph within the clutter. It was a boy, with familiar dark hair and blue eyes. McTrevor’s harsh features, painted on the softer canvas of youth.

  
  


Across the room, Lauren proceeded with the interrogation. “And the weapons, what are they for?”

  
  


“If you know the Phantom Scythe, you must know that no one tells anyone  _ everything.  _ Nobody holds all of the pieces of the puzzle, except for the apostles and the Leader himself.” He grimaced. “I do the accounting.  **I have no idea what the hell those guns are for.”**

  
  


Lauren leaned forward in her spot, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “I see.”

  
  


“The Phantom Scythe has always promised changes. But, nothing noteworthy has happened in years.” His face twisted in both glee and anger, an unhealthy mix of each.  **“If I were to guess, the arms are leaving the country the same way they came, off to someplace foreign. Probably another stupid fundraising campaign to pay for an apostle’s new mansion.** So much for equality, right?”

  
  


Kieran heard Lauren let out a sigh, whisper-like in its apathy. “Right.”

  
  


There was a beat of silence, excluding the shuffling of papers as Kieran assembled the final sheets of his prepared stack. The supposed evidence would have to be enough to get the man to speak.

  
  


“Well, that will be all for me.” Lauren pulled her knife away from McTrevor, pocketing it in a single brisk motion. She looked to Kieran, her head cocked in apparent interest. “Any thoughts?”

  
  


He grinned. “Oh, do I get to speak now?”

  
  


“Why don’t you?” Lauren turned back to McTrevor, an almost sinister look in her eyes. “This should work.”

  
  


McTrevor sneered at the new development. “Cut me open some more, I dare you.  **I’ve told you everything I know.”**

Kieran sighed, adjusting his gloves as he picked up a chair, setting it in front of the merchant. “I’m sure you’ve gone through many interrogations, McTrevor…”

  
  


Lauren leaned on the chair’s back, resting her hand on Kieran’s shoulder comfortably as he sat down. “But you’ve never gone through one with  _ him.” _

  
  


The adulation, from the woman who so often slandered him in good graces, was almost humorous. “Don’t go overpraising me, now. McTrevor, I’d like you to talk in deft enough fashion that the blood on your lip begins to clot. Now, shall we begin?”

  
  


The detective in him shuddered to life, shaking the dust and frost from its idle bones.

  
  


“So. I’d like to start by addressing some prior points in our conversation. Don’t you think it’s a bit  _ rude _ to feed your acquaintances utter horseshit?”

  
  


The man flinched back, withdrawing himself as much as possible within the confines of his restraints. “What are you-”

  
  


“I’m implying that we know. You weren’t only in charge of transactions,  _ and  _ you didn’t work alone. In fact, you were working quite closely with others, weren’t you?” He propped his head up on his fist, lowering himself to his captive’s level. “Including Apostle VII, not that you’ve ever gotten a letter from him. I’m sure he wouldn’t risk an in-person visit or giving you a call. He’d be avoiding a papertrail, so it’s likely that he used an intermediary to relay spoken messages. A person that you’ll meet with sooner or later.”

  
  


McTrevor was quite evidently shocked at the onslaught of realization.  _ “How?” _

  
  


He had learned early on to savor the confunded expressions that his peers would make when they learned that he was, in fact, intelligent.

  
  


Lauren laughed, the sound ringing out both cold and clarion. “He’s impressive, no? He can read your mind. Your darkest secrets and desires.”

  
  


“You flatter me, darling.” Kieran chuckled. “But, yes. Rest assured that you can’t hide anything from me.”

  
  


**“That’s rubbish!”**

  
  


_ “Oh my.” _ He gasped. “You really are considering it though, aren’t you?  _ You might even be scared.” _

  
  


“You think you’re so clever.” McTrevor spat at his feet, narrowly missing his shoes. “But I won’t-”

  
  


Kieran lunged forward, grabbing the front of his shirt.  _ “McTrevor!  _ That wasn’t even my favorite part.” He then rifled through his coat, sorting through the myriad of pockets. “There was another lie, one that really…  _ caught my attention.” _

  
  


McTrevor gritted his teeth as Kieran pulled out a paper.

  
  


“You lied about your children earlier. You do care for someone, don’t you?”

  
  


As he flipped the image around and saw the color drain from McTrevor’s face, the truth of his assumptions were revealed.

  
  


“Must’ve been born out of wedlock… Frankly, you don’t need to confirm he’s your bastard. I don’t care. I’m just glad that we’re on the same page here.”

  
  


McTrevor’s fists clenched in their bonds, his jaw locked and grinding.  **“I don’t know who that is! Must be from one of Apostle VII’s files.”**

Kieran took the pad of his thumb, swiping it over the bloody pool that had collected at the base of the man’s ruptured lip. The warmth sunk through the fabric of his glove, soaking crimson into the flesh of Kieran’s finger. “I suppose it will be of no relevance to you then if we find this child and… take some necessary actions.” He brushed the blood onto McTrevor’s collar. “That is, unless you tell us your business with the Phantom Scythe. It might just remedy our little problem.”

  
  


Lauren let out a quiet chuckle from behind Kieran, cutting through the tension like a butterknife.

  
  


He refocused. “Allow me to ask again. What is your role in Apostle VII’s operation?”

  
  


McTrevor finally broke, looking down in shame. “I oversee the weapons imports and manage the front business- we make everything look legitimate! Other people take care of the paper trail, I clean the money.”

  
  


“I want names and responsibilities.”

  
  


“Harry Anslow and Ryan Flemmings! They’re the only ones I’ve been in contact with! I have no clue who the others are. We’re all merchants, and use each other as alibis to cover up the real transactions.”

  
  


He could see Lauren nod in his peripheral vision. There was no doubt that she was mentally taking note of the names and issues at hand.

  
  


“And of the operation itself? What is the incentive of it all? If it isn’t for ‘fundraising’, where could the weapons  _ possibly _ be going? Fuel for a rebellion, perhaps?”

  
  


**“I swear that I don’t know anything else!”**

  
  


“McTrevor.” Kieran leaned forward, letting his eyes bore into his. Underneath his mask, a fiendish smile spread slowly across his face like cooling candle wax. “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you a bit, and I hope likewise. Fingers crossed you’ve learned by now that your lies will  _ always _ come back to bite you.” 

His eyes bore into those of his target, soft threats frozen within the blue pools. “At least,  _ when you lie to me.” _

  
  


His hostage was more angry than intimidated, it seemed. But as he spoke, his voice trembled almost inaudibly. “Ten years ago, the Leader promised us a better world. One free from the tyranny of the royals! You’re right, rumor has it that those weapons are being imported into the city in anticipation of that long-overdue revolution. The time when the people of Ardhalis will take back power in the city is coming!”

There was no need to indulge in his propaganda.

“Marvelous!” Lauren smiled as Kieran stood up from the chair. She took his spot in front of their captive. “Now, was honesty really so hard?”

  
  


McTrevor turned to Lauren. “Whatever it is you and and your subordinate are planning, I-”

  
  


Kieran bolted up.  _ “Subordinate? Are you insane?” _

  
  


Lauren laughed. “I see I’m not the only one who thinks it suits you! Now, isn’t that  _ perfect?” _

  
  


“That’s rubbish and you know it!”

  
  


“Oh, hush! I basically hired you!”

  
  


Kieran crossed his arms, scowling. “Yet you were quite useless tonight. Counterintuitive, isn’t it?”

  
  


“What’s counterintuitive is that your investigation was practically  _ theoretical  _ until I came into the picture. Close your mouth and do your job.”

  
  


_ “I’ve barely spoken! I will speak when I wish, I’m not your damn attendant-” _

  
  


“Of course not! You’re my  _ subordinate!” _

  
  


The two bickered back and forth, near forgetting their captive’s presence.

  
  


“If- since it seems you’re busy… can I go?” McTrevor knew the answer far before his words quietly punctured their argument.

  
  


Kieran, and Lauren simultaneously, turned to him.  _ “No!” _

  
  


He jumped back from the sudden noise. Their sudden outburst acted as a reminder to stay wary.

  
  


Kieran set his complaint aside. “You must’ve kept records of past fraudulent transactions, or at least of your comings and goings with friends from the Phantom Scythe! Wouldn’t want to jeopardize your alibi, would you?” He turned to the file cabinet behind his desk, holding a hand out to the top drawer. “What do you think? Should I check in there?”

  
  


“No.  **Like I said, there are no records to find.”**

  
  


He let his hand lower to the next drawer. “How about here?”

  
  


_ “No!” _

  
  


One lower. “Here?”

  
  


**“No! God Dammit! I told you there’s nothing!”**

  
  


The drawer opened with no hitch. On the surface of the pile, a sheet marked  _ Transaction Concluded  _ stared up at him. The printed text was original, with no redactions. A red seal drew his eye, a wax bloodstain on the paper with an unfamiliar symbol. Some kind of crest, surrounded by what looked like laurel branches. The seal’s legibility seemed to have unfortunately melted away upon its application.

  
  


It was a victory nonetheless.

  
  


Lauren peered into the drawer along with him. “Nicely done,  _ subordinate!” _

  
  


The nickname would be something to accept, as it appeared that he’d been branded with it. Kieran sighed. “Well, it seems we’ve hit the jackpot.”

  
  


The wall clock creaked as its hands turned past the notches of eleven. The moments had passed exponentially faster as pulses quickened and secrets were told. “Well, it seems our time is just about up. It really does fly when you’re having  _ fun!” _

  
  


Lauren wiped her knife on the hem of her laced top, bowing her head as she pocketed it. “Expect the police to be here promptly. They have enough evidence to lock you up for the next twenty years or so. Enjoy your stay on our behalf.”

  
  


“We’ll be keeping this... “ Kieran brandished the photo again, then tucked it into his cloak. “If you happen to care for this kid, keep your mouth shut about what happened tonight. And whenever it is that you inevitably cave for the police, tell them that it was too dark and too chaotic to recall much detail of the people you’ve met. Is that clear?”

  
  


It came as a shock to see the man stunned into silence.

  
  


The wail of a siren grew louder by the second, presumably from around the corner. Lauren gestured to Kieran, and opened the window. “Lovely speaking to you, Mr. McTrevor.”

  
  


He stole one last look at his helpless captive. “Wishing you a wonderful time in Hell, sir!”

  
  


_ Perhaps I’ll see you there. _

  
  


The duo scaled the building and sprinted across the rooftops, escaping the shouts of Kieran’s own coworkers. They were long gone by the time the officers made their way into McTrevor’s study, a baying pack of wolves charging rampantly from the streets below. They found him bound and bloody, taunted and exposed by the unclouded moonlight from above. 

  
  


Kieran was well aware that he would be on the receiving end of both benefit and consequence for what he had begun.

  
  


He knew how likely it truly was that he would be the next to raise his hands above his head to the sound of sirens, were they not already bound by then.

  
  


This was a truth both irreversible and irrevocable. It was tangible in the ruby drops of merchant blood that littered the study’s floors, in the pounding of Ardhalis’ rooftops as la Lune sprinted both away from and towards their demise.

  
  


_ How very paradoxical indeed. _

  
  


In spite of his slowly impending doom, Kieran found himself smiling.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things never change, do they? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Did anyone see that little parallel at the end there? Just me? ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading! To be honest, I drafted this chapter rather quickly. However, I found myself having a bit of difficulty during the revision process, similar to how I had to work through that with Chapter 4. It seems that I struggle with writing conversations between more than two people. Just like how I struggle to participate in them in real life :' D 
> 
> Just Kidding(?)
> 
> I digress- this fic has really helped me to identify my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. I will keep growing! 
> 
> Thanks to [thesecondComingofGod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecondComingofGod/pseuds/thesecondComingofGod) for BRing this chapter for me. Hopefully, I didn't traumatize you too much!
> 
> Oh... and do my eyes deceive me? Or are we approaching 1000 hits? I'm in shock. Seriously. Thank you for sticking with me on this journey. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! See you in the next chapter <3


	9. Dulce Bellum Inexpertis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her eyes, bright with fury, regarded him with what almost could have been pity. “Fine. You’re digging your own grave, but I’ll be happy to hand you the shovel.”
> 
> _"So be it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: war is sweet to the inexperienced.)_

Kieran had been able to find answers, and not at the expense of his life. Nearly a day had passed and he still meandered around in a state of disbelief.

The department was a lion’s den. Each word he spoke was to be heard by all of his peers, each move analyzed by their watchful gazes. He had to remain vigilant - there was no other option.

He peered beyond the glass panel of one of the Precinct’s tall windows, drowning in an ocean of torrential thought. He was uncuffed, and more surprisingly, alive. _Hell, he was more alive than he had been in a long time._

It should have been an impossibility.

The reign of Lune had made its rounds, at least under the gaze of the common eye. It was evident in the thrum of energy within the office, and in the intensity of his coworker’s whispers. Kieran was too deep to resurface, the marks of his actions tattooed in ink below his skin. And he didn’t know whether to love or hate himself for it.

What he hated the most was that he didn’t know how long he would have to hide the truth.

_Kieran White, pathological liar._

_Fantastic._

He entered the office with a grin, as was to be expected. The people within looked up from their tasks to acknowledge him, to which he responded with a tired wave. Kym had a hand on Will’s shoulders, perhaps for emphasis of one of her outlandish points. Her fists creased and wrinkled his uniform, much to his evident dismay. 

She brushed off her hands, nodding at Kieran. “G’morning, sleepyhead!”

“I’m on time today.”

“Well, that doesn’t brush your hair or iron your shirt, does it?” Kym poked him playfully.

He looked down, noting the disheveled form of fabric under his vest, and the way his curls rebelled against the constraints of his ribbon. “Fair point.”

Lila had set her paper to the side, the drama unfurling in front of her far more interesting than whatever stale headline that had been printed. “Is it true that McTrevor was finally arrested?”

Kym snorted. “Found him hog-tied to his chair, in his own office. Seems like _Lune_ paid him a little visit before we could.”

Hearing their persona uttered aloud was a high of its own. The spike in his heartbeat, the feeling of ugly things crawling beneath his skin, wasn’t entirely pleasant. Or disgusting, for that matter.

“Detective March had said that there were minor abrasions on the man when they found him.” Randall chuckled into his mug. “Wish I could’ve been there to stick a knife up his-”

Lila jumped up, successfully interrupting the sadist in front of her. “So who is _Lune?”_

“He’s succeeded where dozens of detectives have failed. I’d assume someone with a brain _and_ inside information.” Will huffed. “I’m not quite sure what to make of it all.”

Kym took the realization in stride. “In that case, maybe it’s someone from the Phantom Scythe trying to atone! A new secret informer! They’re bound to have spies within their ranks, wouldn’t that make the most sense? That’s how they were able to uncover the operation!” 

Kieran swallowed. His friend, despite her bubbly demeanor, was far too smart.

Harvey looked up from his paperwork, his mouth tight in thought. “This information might’ve been compiled over years. Lune could be a rival merchant dealing for the Phantom Scythe. Maybe they finally decided to leak what they know!”

Kym snapped, waving her hand to Harvey. “Yeah! The pseudonym would be to cover up the shady business he’s involved in! To get the weapons contract for himself, right? That’s genius, Harvey!”

She waved her hands around for emphasis, nearly hitting Will. He grabbed her more excitable wrist and steadied it. “No doubt it’s the work of a specialist, I’ve heard the I.U. guys talking about it. No fingerprints, no footprints, nothing.”

“This guy was careful. He knew exactly what identifiers we’d be looking for.” Lukas’s normally irritated expression had taken a more serious turn.

“I think we might be looking at this the wrong way!” Lila piped up, looking around at the others hopefully. “Lune can be the one to finally serve justice! Goodness knows we need that!”

“What we _need_ is to look beyond the surface. This could be, and likely is, a ploy to divert our attention from something more.” Hermann passed by the group as he entered. “Lune has yet to reveal his face, let alone his true intentions. It’s naïve to put one up on a pedestal so quickly.”

He reached the front of the room, turning to face his officers. “Good morning everyone.”

The workers all bowed in sync. _“Good morning, sir!”_

“At ease, officers.”

Will cleared his throat. “What did McTrevor end up saying about Lune? Has the I.U. discovered any new information?”

“Detective March is with him now. All we’ve gotten from him thus far is that Lune is a team of _two.”_ Hermann glanced up to the clock with an irritated expression. Perhaps McTrevor was harder to break than he had originally thought.

Kieran rubbed his jaw. “Do we have any suspects yet? Is there anything that we could be doing to help the I.U.?”

“Not at the moment… But whatever actions we take, we must be discrete. The last thing we need is the public going berserk over this masked vigilante.” He seemed genuinely concerned. “Consider this confidential until the trial. We can deal with the official announcement then.”

Kieran met the captain’s steely gaze with a placid one of his own. “What’s to happen to McTrevor in the meantime? Can Lune’s evidence be used in court?”

“Lune’s work is eerily complementary to the papers we have in our archives. Everything in the file already has serious detective work to support it. Detective March thinks we can replicate it in time for the trial, and present that file.”

Perhaps it was Kieran’s imagination, but Hermann’s glare seemed to linger on him for a moment longer than the others. 

“McTrevor will appear before the judge tomorrow and face all of the charges he has evaded over the years. In normal circumstances, further investigation would be required before Lune’s work could be considered actual evidence, but the I.U. was able to reproduce and verify everything. The final decision will likely wait until Lune is identified. We can be sure that McTrevor will be incarcerated in the meantime.” Hermann turned unceremoniously towards the door, presumably to attend McTrevor’s interrogation. He gave the Precinct a final withering stare. A warning.

“Whoever Lune is, they won’t be able to hide in the shadows for long. I will not tolerate being toyed with by a coward hiding behind a mask. If they’re half as smart as they pretend to be, they should know that my patience runs thin. Whatever crimes they committed to assemble those files will not be overlooked. I will make it my _personal_ mission to catch these individuals and put them behind bars. For good.” 

.

.

.

The morning at work had been draining, to say the least. To walk outside the building, away from the stress indoors, was something of a blessing.

Kym yawned loudly, reciting the monotonies of the day. “Alright! Paperwork is done. No patrol today. We’ve managed to leave unscathed. Who’s up for watermelon?”

“My god, you have a one-track mind.” Will groaned in anguish. Amused by his friend’s train of thought, Kieran laughed in agreement.

She opened her mouth to retort, but the sound was cut off by a loud wail from across the street. The three of them jumped at the sound before leaping to assess the issue at hand. 

A lady leaned against the closest streetlamp, the afternoon sun boring down on her heavily powdered face. Acres and acres of olive silk took the form of a dress that had to weigh near as much as stone. Her snowy hair, possibly a wig, was piled high on her head, like some sort of garish confection. A lamp, much like the one above her, poked out from the top of the pile alongside faux flowers. Even from across the way, her mascara visibly dripped down her cheeks like liquid tar as she sobbed.

Sensing a crisis, Kieran left his place by his friends, jogging to the woman in distress. Possibly seeing the gleam of the badge on his uniform, the woman steadied herself and barrelled towards him. 

He braced himself for impact. “Good afternoon, my lady. May I ask-”

The lamp flicked him in the face as he was passed, blinding him for a moment. She shoved him to the side, bawling all the way. She dove into Will’s arms. _“HELP ME! I AM A DISGRACE! THIS IS THE END!”_

She lifted her head from Will’s shirt, a phantom print of her face still present in shades of red and pink on the fabric. He pushed himself back, trying to meet her eyes. “Of course! We’re here to help! What’s the matter?”

Having calmed down, the woman looked up to his face. Her eyes widened as they met his. With the loss of most of her makeup, the blush on her cheeks was unmistakable. _“Dear Lord…_ pardon me. I was just dazzled by your gorgeous face.”

Kym snickered at Will’s obvious discomfort. The woman looked back to her and Kieran, who was rubbing the side of his head from the impact. She gazed at him with an expression that he could not name, before turning back to the Lieutenant. 

He wasn’t sure whether he should’ve felt offended or relieved.

Examining Will for a spare moment, she seemed to come to a realization. “Still, you’re subpar compared to my dear _employer”_

“... Employer? Who-”

His inquiry was cut off with a scream of anguish. “OH!!! HOW I MISS MY BELOVED EMPLOYER! I HAVE FAILED HIM! ALL I WANT IS FOR HIM TO BE PROUD!!”

Kym’s demeanor shattered. She let her knees give out as she fell to the pavement, cackling. Will snarled at her as he tried to free himself from the woman’s grip. “Since you find this case so _funny,_ Ladell, you’ll be in charge of it and all of the corresponding paperwork!”

She gave Will a thumbs-up as she tried to collect her breath. “Got it! _My subpar Lieutenant!”_ She shakily retrieved a pen and paper from the pocket of her trousers. “What happened to your _employer,_ my Lady-”

“Arthingham, Miss Arthingham!”

“Noted.”

“This all began a couple of nights ago! Some nimble scoundrels took it upon themselves to _tap dance_ across the manor’s roof! I was so scared, but my sweet, handsome courageous _employer_ protected me.” She sniffled. “But now, _he has vanished! What if it was the Purple Hyacinth stomping on my ceiling?”_

Will furrowed his brow. “Your concern is understandable...”

“What else? Could it have been Lune? They say it’s a team of two, it sounded so! One of them seemed lighter than the other, like a man and a woman!” She gasped, her lacquered nails digging into Will’s shoulders as she began to shake him. _“What if the Purple Hyacinth has a partner?”_

The three of them looked to each other in alarm. Kieran tried to hide the extent of his own. It seemed that no matter his course of actions, he was destined to run into numerous sleuths. Luck was not on his side, but he kept his expression stoic.

He didn’t recall the sunshine of winters past to be so scorching.

_“What if one of those uncouth animals killed my dear Sir Thornberry?”_ Miss Arthingham pulled at her face, kneading it under her fingers and further smudging her mascara.

Kym nodded, scribbling notes in messy shorthand. “When was the last time you met with Sir Thornberry?”

“I was escorting him to a reception, and when he turned the corner, _he just vanished!”_

They nodded. Missing cases were nothing new in the Ardhalis main.

“It’s been nearly _ten minutes!”_

Radio silence.

Kym looked about to burst as she collected herself from the shock. **“I promise we’re taking this case seriously, ma’am.”**

“He needs to be at the reception by five o’clock! My dread transcends voids! What time is it now?”

Will’s tie was clenched in Miss Arthingham’s fist, and the knot seemed to be slipping tighter with each desperate tug. “Ladell, you always have that pocket watch of yours with you. Could you check?”

Kym chewed on the end of her pen. **“So sorry. I forgot it today.** But never fear! I’ve got this.”

The sergeant walked to the middle of the road, thankfully out of the reach of any passing carriages or cars. She held her hands to the sky, letting the sunlight filter through her fingers as she squinted.

_How very Kym Ladell._

“What do you think you’re doing?” Will’s voice was higher than normal, exhausted and strained. _“Stretching to the heavens? Summoning the Devil? Impersonating a racoon?”_

The last option was the most plausible of the three. Her stance, her wide-eyed gaze, her shifting fingers all pointed to that of the ring-tailed creature.

“Shut up! I’m trying to calculate the time with the position of the sun. I’d have the time by now if you’d just hush!”

Between the surprising heat of the day, the weight of the lady’s leaning, and the dishevelment of his once immaculate uniform, Will had lost all composure. “How the-”

Kieran cut him off. Maybe if he stopped talking then, his reputation would be salvageable. “Alright-”

_“My Butler!”_

Miss Arthingham gasped, craning over Will’s shoulder, desperately trying to find the source of the voice.

A man, dressed to the nines in a suit with tails, ran towards the group. He was completely bald, and his head shone under the winter sun like the incoming snow. In relation, his mustache and facial hair matched the wintry shade. 

_“Sir Thornberry!”_ Arthingham ran towards the man, flinging herself into his arms.

_“My Butler!”_

The two of them began to weep together about the woes of never again being able to use brussels sprouts scented cream on their soles.

Kieran and Kym were both speechless. Evidently so.

Will looked as though he was about to commit a crime. 

As the couple trotted off into the distance, Kym cleared her throat. “If she’s the butler and lives like _that… sign me up.”_ She clapped her hands together. “Well, that’s case closed! Who’s up for watermelon?”

Kieran pursued her as she ran to the next street corner, leaving Will to mumble to himself as he sulked along. Kieran tugged her sleeve. “Check your right pocket, Ladell.”

Kym let her hand rest on the pocket, realizing its contents. “Please, Kieran. I’m not playing this game with you. My watch or otherwise, you’d know if I was lying. No fair.” She looked back to Will. “Hurry up, lazy bones! That is, unless you want our rinds for the chewing!”

.

.

.

The firing range was getting dark; the silhouettes of each of the targets elongating and becoming more imposing as the sun fell from the sky.

The sergeant Kym Ladell needed no light to hit her mark.

Her hands shook as she filled the magazine of her gun, but when they gripped its handle, they stilled. _This was her home. She was safe._

She fired. Once. Twice. Ten times.

Her bullets had been shot and gone sooner than she had hoped.

The target across the way, despite being peppered, held only one hole, as to be expected. She filled her gun once more.

Kym liked the sound of a bullet leaving her gun’s chamber. When she fired, one after the other, it almost sounded like the ticking of hands on a clock. Time could fly as fast as she could pull the trigger.

_1:24:28._

_November 14th, xx17._

She had learned to know these things by heart.

When her gun's clicks became hollow, she dropped it to her side, panting. Two holes. Two broken pieces.

She reached hastily into her pocket. Her watch felt warm in her hand. 

It was nice.

Her fingers brushed the engraving on its side. _D.L._

She clenched it harder. 

_Time never really turns back, does it?_

_._

.

.

“We’re on the same page, yes?”

“Always.”

“Perfect.” Lauren twirled one of her daggers over her fingers, observing their board under the dim light of the dusk outside. Each night, she looked upon it from a different angle, like their work was an abstract piece within a gallery. From different angles, with different mindsets, perhaps alternate solutions could be derived.

Kieran straightened himself in his chair. “So?”

“So, we need to act _fast._ After our meeting with McTrevor, it won’t take long for word to spread. The other buffoons in the Scythe will realize they’re next, and our window will close.”

He stretched, letting the feeble light within the cave coat his fingers. “So we’ll force them open! _After all, we’ve come so far.”_

“That was just a mile of the marathon, _subordinate.”_ Lauren smiled wryly. “You best not get too comfortable.”

“Never around you, darling.” 

“Just how I like it.” She glanced at him, then back at their case. “I assume you’ve kept your cover up in the workplace.”

Kieran nodded. “I took every necessary precaution. None of the detectives suspect a thing.”

“That means we can proceed via Harry Anslow, then. With McTrevor’s papers and the evidence you were able to gather, our perspective should be well-rounded enough.” Lauren squinted at one of the tabbed receipts she had collected. Her behaviors were reminiscent of a stalker, not that he was complaining. Her surveillance was crucial.

“And what of Ryan Flemmings?”

“He works at a bank, but alters and erases any evidence of illegal transactions. A _side gig_ of his, if you will.” She pushed a pin into the board. “This includes the legalities of McTrevor’s fake company. The front for the weapon’s operation.”

“And I take it you’ve been following Anslow.”

She leaned against the panel, careful not to disturb its contents. “It’s safe to say I have his routine down. Tomorrow night, he’ll be at the Golden Clover from ten until late. I’ll search his house before meeting you there.”

“Captain Hermann is an _arrogant ass,_ like always. If we try to slip him instructions like before, he’ll jump the gun and attempt to ambush us.” Kieran ran his hand through his hair, the mere thought of his superior teasing a possible migraine. 

Lauren tapped the edge of her dagger on her palm, looking triumphant. “It’s a good thing that we won’t be taking the same steps twice. Say we send them to the wrong address. We could plant instructions there on where to find Anslow. That way, time will be on our side.”

“I’ll also get to see him all vexed at work tomorrow. Not so sure that’s a win-win situation.”

She looked at him with an empty expression.

“That was a joke.”

The jest was ignored. “I’ll leave a second letter there with actual instructions. We should have plenty of time to kidnap and interrogate Anslow.”

Kieran scoffed. “Define _kidnap,_ Rosenthal.”

“Same routine as the last... only not in his house. Lighten up, Officer, you were quite okay with _that.”_

“Hmm.” He grabbed a sheet from the stack of paper in front of him, and fed it into the teeth of the typewriter. He jolted as he recalled the events of the afternoon. “By the way, I’m assuming we can’t use the ‘trick of the light’ excuse to hide our identities more than once, no matter the quality of our blackmail. What details are we letting Anslow keep?”

“I’m assuming you’re referring to sex?”

“My, my. I wasn’t thinking of something so raunchy. Our affairs can stay secret, I suppose.” His quip was distracted, nullified by the mechanical clicks of his typing and the consuming blankness that often came with concentration.

  
  


“I suppose they must!” Lauren laughed, the sound echoing off the cave walls. ”There’s going to be a downfall to whatever we say. One of us will always be at risk. If Lune is male, that puts you on the chopping block. If Lune is female, we turn the tables, maybe shock them a bit. ”

“Shock them?”

She brushed the hair out of her eyes, smiling softly to herself. “Don’t play stupid. You know that Ardhalis expects someone like you.”

“Someone like me.” He knew that was true. 

Anything would be better than the truth. 

“Two males. We should say two males.”

Lauren’s eyes widened, and she flinched as if she had been hit. “Care to explain?”

“They already know that the Purple Hyacinth is a woman. I’m the one who told them, after all.” He closed his eyes, taking a breath for himself. “As for Lune, they’re foolishly narrowing down their suspects already. We might as well feed into their agenda for now.”

Lauren was silent for a moment, before clasping her hands together with a loud snap. “Don’t tell me this is your method of martyring yourself to our cause.”

Her words caught him off guard, but he let his own tumble free. “Alas, I’ll be the first to admit it.”

“Well it’s ridiculous and unnecessary. Know what you’re getting yourself-”

“I understand. _Two males.”_ He tensed, clenching his jaw and fists.

Her eyes, bright with fury, regarded him with what almost could have been pity. “Fine. You’re digging your own grave, but I’ll be happy to hand you the shovel.”

_“So be it.”_

For a moment, they worked together in silence.

Lauren finally relented. “Alright. If we’re supposed to pass for two men, you’ll be the one doing all the talking. My voice would give me away. Prepare some questions.”

Kieran didn’t respond.

“How does this _ability_ of yours work, anyhow? It doesn’t seem to be a talent, like I had first suspected.” She leaned over the typewriter to look him in the eyes. “It’s almost _supernatural.”_

Kieran laughed, haphazardly so as he fed more print through the typewriter. “Do you plan to exorcise me? Give me a heads-up, I’ll… I’ll bring the holy water myself.”

“Someone must have taught you.”

Kieran paused, jerking his hands back from their position over the keys. “...No one. I’ve always had this ability. I can’t explain it.”

His laconic response was not satisfactory, it seemed. Above any irritation or harshness, Lauren just sounded weary. “Let’s finish up these files, and we’ll be set for tomorrow.”

Kieran couldn’t shake the bitter taste that had blossomed in his mouth.

He wondered if she could taste it, too. But he supposed that she had grown accustomed to the acrid undertones that came with war.

.

.

.

The stars in the sky above were the lesser lights in the night air, the city lanterns casting long shadows onto the pavements as people moved from building to building, enjoying Ardhalis’ nightlife.

Kieran blended right in with them. He wore a grey suit, complete with a hat, gloves, and an ornamental cane. It was a bit much for him, but necessary for their cause. 

A hooded figure was barely visible in an alleyway next to the Golden Clover. Many of the patrons on the way to the bar passed by obliviously, far too occupied with the prospect of a night full of drinks and dancing to notice or find something so imposing. Kieran met the darkness where it stood.

He tipped his hat as he was acknowledged. “Good evening. Ready for our date, madame?”

Lauren reached out a hand to brush the side of his face. The new stubble that graced his jaw was irritating, but necessary. “Oh my god, it’s actually real. I didn’t think you could grow it.”

“What, this?” Seeing as he was somewhat of a local, it made sense to don a disguise. Their mission was taking place in close proximity to his workplace, to his acquaintances and friends. “You told me to go _incognito,_ what did you expect? A shaved head and a limp?”

**“It’s possible.** Good thing this is a one-night situation.”

He sighed. “You wound me. Trust me, the relief is all mine. I look _and_ feel scruffy, and these glasses are aggravating enough.” He pulled the lenses from his face, looking down at the circular wire rims. They sat too far up on his nose, and he was constantly paranoid of them falling or fogging up. “How was your little break-in?”

From under the hood, Lauren scoffed. “I didn’t find much at Anslow’s earlier. He’s not as foolish as McTrevor was.”

“It takes a real... _ass_ to leave traces of illegal activity in his own office.”

He could make out a smile under the shadow and fabric. “Let’s go, then. We don’t have much time until the police get here, diversions aside.” 

As she turned to enter, Kieran caught the crook of her arm with his cane. “You can’t go in like that, _Rosenthal._ I’m sure that the patrons wouldn’t take kindly to the whole ‘alleyway assassin’ look you’re modeling. We’re not here to frighten the upper proletariat out of their self-indulgent drinking and mingling.”

“Ah, yes. The theme of the night is _rich merchants with inflated egos._ How could I forget?” She reached up to her hood, drawing it back to reveal herself. She had painted her face to match the lamplight, rouge and powders and kohl that accentuated her eyes. Her crimson hair fell loosely over her back, a golden crown of laurels encircling her head. 

Lauren removed her cloak altogether. Her dress sewn of fire itself.

She was sheathed in red, fabric snug on the bodice and billowing towards the ground. The satin wove around her neck in a choker, and her waist was woven with gold. The long sleeves cast themselves over her slender arms, revealing the skin of her wrists just above her gloves. 

_“Oh?”_ Kieran smirked. “I see you cleaned up. Hope it’ll be practical.”

She hiked up her skirt. A reasonable dagger was strapped securely to her thigh, in place of any sort of garter. “You won’t have to worry about me.”

“Well.” He extended his hand to Lauren, and she took it. _“I can’t say I’ve ever danced with the devil in pale moonlight.”_

A sort of mischief in her eyes, Lauren’s grip was not tentative in the least. It was sure. 

“Rest assured that she is a _fine_ dancer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this chapter beyond salvation from the moment "Butler" walked into the picture? You bet. All I can say is... blame Thumbipeach >:D
> 
> Never fear, we have some Lauki INTRIGUE coming our way next chapter... Time to show you all what I can really do. Heh.
> 
> ALSO PURPLE HYACINTH S2 HAS ME QUAKING. I'm going to continue to update FMIWB despite that, being the CLOWN I am...
> 
> ANYHOW... wow. 1000 hits??? I'm in shock. I never expected to get so much attention. It makes me beyond happy that you all have been enjoying my writing! Thank you for sticking by me as my writing improves, I get more consistent, and I progress through this story :' D
> 
> I've begun to consider this a bit of an in-depth character analysis of the PH characters- hopefully, I've been doing them justice! Examining an almost... self-sabotaging instinct inside of Officer Kieran has been especially interesting for me. I know roleswaps aren't everyone's cup of tea. I'm grateful that you've all found something to stick around for <3


	10. Campax Infiniti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“But I’d rather keep your more disquieting sins inside the closet.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _(or: to hold infinity.)_  
>  (additionally: the capability of achieving goals by force.)

_A fine dancer, or so she claims to be._

  
  


The doors of the Golden Clover were mountainous, wrung with brass and metal. The little light spared in the evening refracted off of its twisting surfaces, dancing on the jewelry and smiles of passersby.

  
  


A hostess approached to greet them, as though they were latter-day royalty. Lauren shrugged her cloak from her shoulders, handing it to the woman in a neat pile. Kieran followed suit, stacking his hat, cane, and jacket above hers. After exchanging a couple of words of gratitude, they continued on their path, huddling close to shield themselves from the chill.

  
  


Lauren leaned over and peered up at his face. “You seem happy.”

  
  


“What makes you think that?”

  
  


“You’re practically glowing!”

  
  


“Well, a good… _late afternoon’s_ sleep can do _wonders.”_ He raised a hand up in defense. “My nights are reserved only for you, dear.”

  
  


She scoffed. “Been a long time?”

  
  


“You have no idea.” He lowered his voice as they passed the last line of workers. “I did a bit of reconnaissance earlier. There’s a storage room in the back that I set up for our little rendezvous.”

  
  


“Okay, _bad cop.”_ She raised her brows, her cheeks turned rosy by the bite of the cold.

  
  


Kieran jabbed her in the ribs with his elbow, to which she didn’t budge. “Oh, stop it. We won’t be disturbed in there, at least not until the police arrive.”

  
  


Arm in arm, the two of them advanced through the gates and into their outlandish mission amidst the festivities.

  
  


Kieran noted how his companion’s eyes trained over each inch of the room, from the polished wooden floors to the ornate chandelier hanging over a floor of dancers. “Why so quiet?”

  
  


“I’m just shocked that you actually broke into here.”

  
  


“Well, you told me to. And I’d prefer to _survive the night,_ if you please.”

  
  


Lauren brushed a long strand of hair that had fallen over her eyes as she inspected, threading it back through the golden crown on her head. “I’m sure it’s not something that they taught you back at the academy.”

  
  


“I’m self taught. I know, it’s shocking,” Kieran teased her. “The academy professors didn’t exactly go around, handing out hairpins and gesturing to door locks, telling us to _‘have at it’.”_

  
  


“That could just be a _‘me’_ thing.” Lauren closed her eyes, and took a breath. She looked to savor the chattering and the music that floated through the air from a band set modestly in the corner. When her eyes opened, there was a softness to the scorching embers. Even from Kieran’s limited impressions of her, it seemed a rarity for her to be so at peace. 

  
  


She squeezed his hand. “Why don’t we dance? There’s a better view from the center of the floor.”

  
  


He let her lure him into the lavishly dressed crowd, flowers of different colors and appearances that formed a most peculiar garden.

  
  


The bar’s nocturnal hours had crept up on them; empty spots on the floor becoming quite scarce. Following Lauren’s lead, they weaved in between various couples until they found a hole in the crowd. The assassin pulled him in by his fingers, bridging the gap between them quickly. Kieran placed one hand on the dip of her back and one in hers. 

  
  


The two of them swayed slowly to the music, a symphony en _largo_ sung by a musician’s bow sweeping slowly over his violin, the hum of a clarinet underscoring its lament. They looked over each others’ shoulders, scoping out the room from their individual perspectives. The dancing duo moved together like a well-oiled machine.

  
  


“Any sign of Anslow?” Lauren’s lips parted in concentration, her eyes darting from patron to patron. 

  
  


“Not yet.” All seemed to be well; the counter was alight with people ordering their first cocktails of the night, and the floor was busy with dancing and raucous laughter.

  
  


“Positive none of your wealthy family friends will recognize you here?” Lauren moved her gaze up to him. “Oh, you kept your hair down, too.”

  
  


“Unfortunately.”

  
  


Leaving his hair untapered against his back was more than physically uncomfortable. He felt it unwise to let unruly strands fall in front of his eyes, and losing the different solaces that his ribbons, white or gold, had to offer made him out to feel chronically deprived. He would never admit to the unyielding feeling of a premonition looming over his head, like the circling vultures and jackdaws that would scout out carrion in the more rural areas of the city.

  
  


Ironic as it was, what softened the tension in his shoulders and alleviated the locked tightness in his jaw was the feeling of his hand in Lauren’s. 

  
  


It could’ve been because of the assurance she provided. He’d known she was powerful, strong enough to carry any of the extra baggage he might supply. Maybe their proximity kept him feeling anchored amongst his paranoia, the busy room and events to come.

  
  


Perhaps he had become a bit reliant. Holding tightly to a rose could only resort in blood by the hand of its thorns.

  
  


Lauren dug her fingers into his shoulder playfully. “I’m very sorry for your discomfort. But, I suppose that sometimes, safety comes at the expense of looking like a _wet dog.”_

  
  


Kieran gasped in indignance. “Hey! The _facial hair_ is a lot, but-” 

  
  


“So is the hair. And don’t forget about the glasses.”

  
  


“This is on you.” He suddenly jolted, and blanched. “Wait- my _wealthy_ family friends?” Have you been prying?”

  
  


Lauren met his accusation with an air of innocence. “The deal was _no personal questions._ It only makes sense for me to have a little look into your life on my own.”

  
  


He lowered his voice, his tones bordering on a growl. “If anyone I know is in danger because of you, _I swear to God I’ll-”_

  
  


“Give me some credit. Besides, don’t tell me you weren’t thinking of doing some recon on me.”

  
  


“Well, of course I considered it, Lauren _Rosenthal.”_ The song reached its final note as his voice dropped For a moment, there was silence. He leaned down to her ear, dropping his voice to a whisper.

  
  


Some childish part of him had expected her to smell like blood.

  
  


_“But I’d rather keep your more disquieting sins inside the closet.”_

  
  


Her hair smelled of orange blossoms. And springtime.

She leaned back from him, a look of mild amusement on her face. **“I’m more of an open-book type, I think.”**

  
  


“Somehow I doubt that.”

  
  


The music picked up, a faster melody with more complicated motions. The dance between them picked up its pace, the movements more sweeping, the turns wider and more dramatic. He lifted a hand above his head, letting Lauren twirl before coming back. 

  
  


He had learned to dance as a boy, his bare feet pressed over his mother’s shoes as they spun to the rhythm of one of their old records. They had never danced to something so dramatic.

  
  


It was a good thing that he was a fast learner.

  
  


As he pulled her in after a more arduous fallaway, he cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about my _‘wealthy family friends’._ I haven’t seen them in years, nor do I ever intend to.”

  
  


“Oh, dirty laundry?”

  
  


“Some people’s business is not entirely a matter of public record, you know.”

  
  


“So I’ve heard.” She spun outwards before moving back in. “Sometimes I forget you’re a police officer.”

  
  


“Really?”

  
  


“You’re questionably okay with all of this.”

  
  


“Hmm.” He thought about it. “It’s the most… _productive_ option, I think.”

  
  


“I see.”

  
  


“But, despite what you might think, I’m a pretty good officer, you know.”

  
  


“Maybe one day I’ll get to see what you can do with handcuffs.”

  
  


“Yeah…” He skimmed the room again, only to turn back to her when he fully processed what she had said. _“Wait, what?”_

  
  


“Don’t twist my words into something from the gutter, _subordina-”_ Kieran picked her up and spun her quickly to the other side, placing her back down hastily. _“What was that?”_

  
  


A tuxedoed man and a woman donning a cage with a wild bird on her head danced on the other side of the floor. They moved off-beat from the music, but looked happy nonetheless.

  
  


“Those people over there-” He ducked his head, trying to avoid their potential gazes. “They might recognize my face.”

  
  


Lauren turned to inspect the couple, her eyes widening in both amusement and shock. “Dare I ask about the company you keep?”

  
  


“It’s not what you think, I swear.” They observed the two of them as they engaged in a particularly risky maneuver in which Miss Arthingham was flipped upside down, and Sir Thornberry held onto her with a single hand. 

  
  


She moved to make a comment, but then thought better. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  
  


“I’m sure you’ve come here before, or somewhere like this.”

  
  


Her shoulders moved under his hands as she shrugged. “I’ve had my fair share of dances.”

  
  


“Ah, I can picture that.” He grinned roguishly at her. “You, and someone insignificant, dancing only for you to slit their throat by the end of the evening.”

  
  


Lauren’s mouth pinched into a smirk. “Some missions are more interesting than others.”

  
  


_That’s all this really is, isn’t it? A dance. A routine._

  
  


_We move as one, act as one, try not to step on each other’s toes._

  
  


_We don’t let the sword and gun touch. I won’t._

  
  


_Heaven or Hell knows what would happen if they did._

  
  


Kieran nodded down to her, his lips quirked up in a smile. “Tell me, how do I size up?”

  
  


She laughed to herself. “As a dancer, you... “ The two of them leaned together, balanced as one. “Are not bad.”

  
  


The confession was true, clear as day. He supposed he should have felt flattered.

  
  


“I’ll take it to heart, then.”

  
  


Lauren led herself into a dip accompanied by the music’s final crescendo. As she rose, she wrapped her fingers around his tie. She tugged him inwards with a smile. The distance between their chests was closed, and he seized up at the proximity.

  
  


Her breath hit his ear softly. The wing of a dove, or the blade of a knife gently raking over his skin, threatening agony, slow and sweet.

  
  


_“We’ve got our man.”_

  
  


.

.

.

Harry Anslow sat at one of the array of card tables, holding a hand of cards to his chest. His brown eyes looked skeptically around at his peers, deciding his next move on whatever whim possessed him. A large quantity of gambling tokens sat at his spot’s forefront.

  
  


“He seems to be doing well,” Kieran scoffed, looking to Lauren. 

  
  


“This is a regular activity of his. I’d expect one learns a thing or two from loitering around the tables weekly.”

  
  


“True.” He noticed the bartender approaching their spot, dropping a paper in front of them. “I suppose we should order something.“ His eyes caught the numbers on the menu. _“Holy-”_

  
  


“Overpriced and overrated. But it looks bad to sit without patronizing.”

  
  


“Drinks, then?” 

  
  


_“Cabernet Sauvignons._ Both of us.” She waved the worker back, and placed their order. It was oddly specific, Kieran thought, until he noted the identical drink in Anslow’s hand.

  
  


“... a bit stalkerish, but fine.”

  
  


“If all else fails, one of us can flirt with him!”

  
  


_“Rosenthal._ I’ll flirt with anyone if I find them intriguing, but I have _high_ standards.”

  
  


Her lips, drawn into a smile, dripped with affronted venom. “Well, then you’d better not botch this job. I’m doing my part, you’re to follow through with what we discussed. _That’s what you wanted, isn’t it…”_ Her volume lowered to only a ragged breath. _“Martyr?”_

  
  


_To tie my own noose? To let my fingers dance over the licking flames?_

  
  


The delivery of their drinks quickly thawed the chill between them which transcended the winter’s bite. Two glasses, filled halfway to the brim with red wine.

  
  


Lauren raised her drink, an act of reconciliation. _“To our chronic misfortune.”_

  
  


_“Here, here.”_ Their glasses touched, a limpid sound that hung in the air. A warning, a bird call to an unassuming forest below.

  
  


Kieran inhaled the fumes from the drink, taking a moment to savor its strength before moving to take a sip.

  
  


“How is it?” She looked upon him intently, but the answer could likely be reaped from the soured expression on his face.

  
  


“Tastes like a waste of good money. But so is the way of the bourgeois.”

  
  


They shared a laugh, quiet against the sounds of the nightlife.

  
  


Maybe, for that moment then, they weren’t officer and assassin. They could wash the blood from each other’s hands, replace it with a glass of wine or the warm palm of the other. They could be Kieran and Lauren. Two citizens, both in clean conscience, who could dance fairly well indeed.

  
  


Even the faint of mind can comprehend that the most gorgeous flowers wilt and die after no time at all, leaving nothing but shriveled vines and spearlike barbs in their wake.

.

.

.

It didn’t take much. An arm around his, a whisper in his ear; Lauren had been able to lure Anslow from his seat at the tables within what must have been a matter of seconds.

  
  


They exchanged pleasantries and ordered drinks at the bar in a mirage of jovial fun, while Kieran lurked a couple of seats down like some sort of tavern wraith.

  
  


Fifteen minutes or so passed of vapid and trivial conversation that did not age gracefully in Kieran’s ears. Their back-and-forth exchange gave a plethora of weight and no traction as he fished for some word of substance.

  
  


“I’m not the worst at the tables, but after a couple of rounds you can tell who the real snakes are… Have you ever played?” With his dark hair and eyes, not to mention a sullen face, any interest one might have had in Anslow would be placated by his bored appearance alone. The mustache he possessed made Kieran’s will to shave all the more stronger.

  
  


Lauren shook her head modestly. “I don’t play much, but I always enjoy it.”

  
  


“Well, with the hellscape our city’s become these days, it’s always the little things, isn’t it?”

  
  


Kieran and Lauren both looked up. Lauren cocked her head, feigning obliviosity. “Hellscape?”

  
  


“I mean, **the Phantom Scythe is horrible enough,** and there have been rumors of some group combating the efforts of both them and the APD. We’re a mess.”

  
  


Despite the power he held within the organization, Anslow was blissfully unaware that he was discussing the situation at hand with someone who brought it far out of his depth.

  
  


“The most irritating part of it all is the one at the helm of the P.S., the Purple Hyacinth. If I knew who the hell she was, I don’t know if I’d rather shoot her or shake her hand.”

  
  


Lauren stiffened. 

  
  


“Her revival is probably the most… interesting part of the year thus far. We all can recount the horror stories…” Anslow drummed his fingers on the counter. “I remember the papers. That one year, when she carved a heart out of a man’s chest, and sent it to his loved ones in the mail. It was the headline of the holidays.”

  
  


Lauren’s eyes trained into the distance. “That was horrid, wasn’t it?”

  
  


“Dear lord. Remember that one family that was killed? They found the mother and children, slowly bleeding out on their dining room chairs. In the exact spots that they sat each night for dinner. What was it… December 12th? Xx24? The Bleeding of Hanbury Street. Now that, _that,_ was terrifying.”

  
  


Of course Kieran remembered. He had been on patrol with the investigation unit that day.

  
  


She had killed so many people, the road had run red with their blood.

  
  


It had felt so slick under his shoes, the advent of something far worse.

  
  


Lauren looked up from her drink. “It must have been a pain to clean up.”

  
  


_How could she be so nonchalant?_

  
  


He really shouldn’t have been so surprised.

  
  


She leaned over to the man, unaffected. “ **I could use a smoke,** want to disappear with me for a bit?”

“Why not? I could use one myself.”

  
  


Lauren’s duty was practically done. Kieran had retrieved his own coffin; she had made that clear enough. Maybe if he was successful, there would be no need to tuck himself in and seal the lid.

.

.

.

Kieran took the other exit, hiding around the corner.

  
  


Anslow and Lauren left through the back door, making their way into the empty alley behind. The lighter that the former held illuminated the aging crevices of his face, casting much of it in shadow as he struggled with it. His cigar soon caught fire, the burning end glowing like a lightning bug in the darkness.

  
  


“Apologies for bringing up such heavy topics tonight. Wasn’t my intention.” He took a drag on the roll, inhaling with reverence. 

  
  


“No need to apologize. These topics make their way into most conversations nowadays, I find.”

  
  


“You aren’t wrong.” He reached into his suit jacket, retrieving another smoke. He lit it, holding the cigar out to Lauren. “There are so many characters these days.”

  
  


The smoke enwreathed her face as she waved it between two fingers. The mist rose, dancing and forming shapes in the alley. She leaned against the brick wall, squinting out to the other side. “Tell me about it.”

  
  


“We have the bad people, and the _bad people._ But there’s always a line of grey, isn’t there? The people that walk it…” He took another deep breath. “Those are the ones you need to watch out for the most.”

  
  


Time was running short. Kieran’s window was bound to close.

  
  


From behind his target, Lauren looked up to notice him, peering at him curiously from over her nose. Her expression betrayed no acknowledgement, save for a glint in her eyes. It was a challenge. A mockery.

  
  


He’d inflicted pain for the sake of the law, never for his own.

  
  


Anslow continued to speak, oblivious. “But, they can also be your greatest assets.”

  
  


_Maybe it won’t be so different._

  
  


Kieran let his fist swing.

  
  


It made contact on the base of Anslow’s head. With a grunt, he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. It was a new feeling on his hands; his knuckles ached from the sharp impact, and he couldn’t find it within him to unclench his fist.

  
  


The sensation should have been agonizing.

  
  


But he couldn’t have fathomed the internal numbness that fell upon him like a wave, the way his sentimentality had been snuffed like a candle that had burned and wavered for far too long, or the end of Lauren’s unused smoke against the brick wall.

  
  


She scoffed. “I could never fault you for being inefficient.”

  
  


He felt so _exhausted._ Kieran grabbed his victim’s collar, and began to drag him down the pathway with a heavy gait and empty eyes.

  
  


“Shall we?”

.

.

.

The fact that the circumstance had an air of familiarity about it should have said enough.

  
  


Anslow had been propped up in a chair, bound and blindfolded, far from the other 

patrons and any potential interruptions. 

  
  


Their dress clothes lay crumpled in a bag, as the two of them had reverted back to darkness. Lauren was strangely silent as they propped up their captive; even more so as she tapped a bucket of cold water, rinsing the makeup from her face. 

  
  


When she finally looked up, all that remained was the darkness lining her eyes. If not residual powder, it was lingering exhaustion that had seeped under her skin like sable poison. “You’re still here.”

  
  


He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “Where else would I be?”

  
  


“You looked…” She snorted. It sounded resentful, but not towards Kieran. “You looked alarmed back there. Anslow-”

  
  


“It’s not like that was anything I wasn’t already aware of.” He looked down at his hands, the white gloves slightly tainted, the fingers darkened by ash. He found himself grinning ruefully at the soot. “You get your orders, you follow through. I never expected anything otherwise.”

  
  


_Nothing more, nothing less._

  
  


Lauren was the Purple Hyacinth. He’d known that from the start.

  
  


_There’s some sort of fissure in my intentions..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to make this chapter somewhat spicy and fun, and it just ended up being angsty again. But, in the words of OKW himself, "So be it."  
> Shoutout to my beta: I hate you-
> 
> Who needs a med degree these days? I did like 3 rounds of plastic surgery on this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	11. Temet Nosce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I dare you to kill me. I dare you to regard me as your greatest asset and most fatal mistake._  
> 
> 
> _As you are mine._  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: know thyself.)_

_“‘Ammonium Carbonate_ ’. You sure this’ll do the trick?”

  
  


“Of course. Let me know when a whiff of this _doesn’t_ send someone thrashing.”

  
  


The air had grown thick and heavy as a consequence of the close proximity. Each of the concrete walls had dampened as the night grew colder, leaving any lingering heat to flood into the room. The two in black were practically panting under the cover of their masks, and had their hair not been tied high above their faces, it would have likely stuck to the backs of their necks. 

  
  


Their forthcoming performance would be accompanied by the steady drip of water falling from one of the ceiling’s various rusting pipes, each feeble splash a reminder of the time that slipped through their fingers with such ease. The buzz emanating from the jubilee of the surrounding establishment would be sufficient cover for their actions. 

  
  


Lauren kneeled in front of the unconscious man while Kieran peered from behind, over his shoulders. He held out a glass jar of white powder to their captive’s nose.

  
  


Awakening with a gasp, Anslow reeled against his constraints and shrunk against the lights he could not see. _“What the hell? What’s-”_

  
  


His complaints were stifled as the rim of Lauren’s blade moved to hover against the base of his neck. Kieran put his hands on Anslow’s shoulders, leaning on him heavily. It was almost more to reassure himself than unnerve his target.

  
  


“Don’t fret. We’re actually in a rush tonight, so it’ll be like we were never here.” He smirked. “So long as you comply.”

  
  


Kieran stole a glance at Lauren, her intentional silence a taunt of its own. “Wouldn’t want to disturb the others out there, would we? I’d recommend you keep your voice _very, very low.”_

  
  


A bead of sweat rolled lazily down Anslow’s temple as he bowed his head in a slow, submissive nod.

  
  


“What is your role in the Phantom Scythe’s weapons operation? And what do you know about the Seventh Apostle?”

  
  


**_“_ ** _How-”_

  
  


He tightened his grip. “I’d recommend you answer fast. We’re a bit impatient tonight.”

  
  


**“I’m only a pawn in the operation. I know that it’s happening, that’s all!”**

  
  


Kieran let his eyes flick onto Lauren, and she nodded in understanding. Her blade fell deeper into Anslow’s skin, not quite breaking through or drawing blood. But close.

  
  


_“Damn._ And here I thought I was being nice.” His voice took on an air of humor; its integrity just as questionable as his actions. “It isn’t wise to revert to lying, especially when a knife is held at your throat. Perhaps we should use a more convincing method?”

  
  


Another gesture, and Lauren pulled the knife back from Anslow’s neck. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the tip plunging into the chair’s wooden armrest. The shining metal quivered precariously between two of Anslow’s fingers.

  
  


Necessary physical measures would be inevitable, Kieran had known that. Lauren had assured him that she would take care of them gladly, and dust her hands haphazardly afterwards. In that manner, the rush of the chase could be enjoyed tastefully. “See? I told you we were feeling _antsy.”_

  
  


Years of acting as a harbinger of the law taught one that fear, one of the more elusive emotions, could often be found in the depths of a person’s eyes. Even with them covered, the terror was legible on Anslow’s face. “You’re the ones that got McTrevor, aren’t you?”

  
  


“I didn’t realize we were so _notable!_ Something tells me that you’re going to be _just_ as fun to torture as your friend.”

  
  


_“I swear, I’ll cooperate!”_ His voice rose into a shout, almost panicked, before settling down to a frightening calm. “I’d rather confess to you than the cops, anyhow.”

  
  


Kieran flinched. And then jumped, as Lauren drove another dagger into the chair, once again teasing the possibility of an amputation.

  
  


_Did she misunderstand?_

  
  


Anslow seemed to lose notice of the bonds holding his hands, as he tried to drive them back from their positions in recoil. _“What the hell?”_

  
  


Kieran shook his head at Lauren, flustered. It seemed that the situation would require him to improvise. _“We have no time for these games. Tell us what you know, and now.”_

  
  


“I don’t know who the Seventh Apostle is. **I don’t think anyone does, except the leader!”**

  
  


He gestured to Lauren for another strike. But, she disregarded his expression, and looked back down at Anslow.

  
  


They needed a new form of communication. To impart his intentions to Lauren had begun to fall on the same lines as the act of training a particularly disobedient dog.

  
  


He tried again. More obvious, more heavily. No response.

  
  


After a rather harsh clearing of his throat, Lauren looked up slowly, motioning with a confused expression. Questioning his intentions.

  
  


Kieran nodded back aggressively, a desperate attempt to confirm his objective.

  
  


It was answered with more indignant signing. He was being lectured, it seemed, without a single audible word.

  
  


He met the silent disquisition with his own sort of gusto.

  
  


And so, it continued.

  
  


They nearly forgot about the quaking captive between them. As the silence stretched longer, the tension in his shoulders began to ebb away.

  
  


Only to surge back with its own electricity, presaged by the stab of yet another knife.

  
  


Kieran spoke again in the wake of Lauren’s sudden action, assuming that their argument had come to a halt. “So this is some sort of rebellion, correct? Bold of your Leader to order such a thing.”

  
  


“I joined the P.S. because it gave me the opportunity to make easy money and gain reconnaissance as a merchant. But the revolution is long overdue.” A slow smile began to creep onto Anslow’s face. “It should have started at Allendale! Strike when the royal family is most vulnerable.”

  
  


All of the schemes, each viciously corrupt thought, sent lead pumping through Kieran’s veins.

  
  


“It would have been _ideal_ circumstances for rebellion. With King Edward’s death, and the general dissent, it would have made overthrowing the system almost _easy._ It’s about time the Leader made a move! _It’s been years!”_

  
  


His tone was chilling. Kieran sighed, flicking his head up in thought. He started at the hollow sound of another knife hitting wood.

  
  


He swerved around, indignant at Lauren’s gall. “My God! The _audacity!”_

  
  


She rolled her eyes, her lips sealed dutifully in the presence of another. 

  
  


_I’m going to be the one to kill this woman, assuming she doesn’t kill me first._

  
  


With a pause, he ceased in his retaliation. Wasting the feeble energy he had left in trying to sedate his affronted partner would be both unfruitful and a waste. 

  
  


Kieran shook his head, leaning down to get close to Anslow. “So… you say you doubt anyone has met the apostle. But I'm very sure you’ve met someone who did. I’m assuming that the Seventh would know better than to leave a paper trail. He must’ve sent his messenger.”

  
  


“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Anslow shifted in his position, locking his jaw in place.

  
  


A lump in the man’s jacket caught Kieran’s attention. He reached in, retrieving a leather wallet filled with layer upon layer of papers and licenses. He waved Lauren over, handing it to her silently. She grabbed it with the eagerness of a curious child, intent to flip through its contents. He only hoped that they’d scared Anslow enough, and persuaded him such, that another probing wouldn’t wouldn’t be necessary.

  
  


Alongside the fluttering of pages, sirens began in a sort of whisper, their mechanical howls gradually increasing in volume and intensity.

  
  


_Faster. I need to work faster._

  
  


“Now, don’t be shy.” He let his eyes rake the shelves until he came across a spare dinner fork. Kieran seized it, pivoting and sending the tongs plunging into the chair himself. 

  
  


He wasn’t one to wield knives, anyhow.

  
  


The kitschy weapon provided sufficient intimidation, judging by Anslow’s response. _“The apostles never show themselves!_ It’s always an anonymous messenger who gives us our directives. They are the eyes, ears, and voices of the apostle. I tried to trail one once, but I lost him. They practically appear and disappear at will.”

  
  


_Faster._ “We both know McTrevor’s out of commission. But tell us about Ryan Flemmings. Where is he? Where are the others?”

  
  


“I couldn’t say! They get their weapons from the black market overseas, so he isn’t in the city. He’s out dealing with one of our main suppliers on behalf of the apostle. As for the others, I’ve cooperated with McTrevor, Ryan Flemmings, and a woman called Beatrice Blakesley.”

  
  


_The sirens grew louder._

  
  


“Alright.” Kieran fished the various silver shafts from the chair, tossing the arbitrarily selected fork back to its initial resting spot. He handed the more traditional instruments back to Lauren. She pocketed all but one, holding between two fingers as she continued to examine the wallet. Kieran adjusted Anslow’s blindfold with the intent to soon make an exit. In the minutes prior, the closet had grown far too small for his liking. “Anyhow, thanks for your cooperation. We’d recommend you keep it up for the police if you want your trip to jail to be painless.”

  
  


Like the eye of a storm, the papers stopped fluttering. On the contrary, they snapped.

  
  


Kieran looked back at the noise, and what he saw confirmed his deepest suspicion.

  
  


_This was a mistake._

  
  


Lauren’s face had gone rigid. Her eyes were trained down at the wallet, clenched in her fingers tightly. When she looked up at Anslow, her face held nothing but unbridled fury.

  
  


Kieran treaded carefully. “Is there something we should know?”

  
  


His concern was blatantly disregarded. Lauren charged past him, dropping the wallet into his fumbling grip in her wake. 

  
  


_Louder. Faster._ The footsteps surrounding their closet had become frantic. Kieran swallowed, the wallet’s leather still disquietingly warm from her grasp. “We need to _go.”_

  
  


His warning words were lost, drowned in a surging sea of rage and ruin.

  
  


Lauren tugged Anslow’s blindfold down from his eyes, and shoved a piece of paper, slightly rumpled and stained from water, over them. _“Where the hell did you get this?”_

  
  


Anslow jumped, but his lips remained sealed.

  
  


_“What’s your connection with him?”_ Lauren‘s knuckles whitened as they clenched the knife in the moonlight, hovering it over his index finger. _“Come on. Don’t play games with me.”_

  
  


The accusations were again met with silence.

  
  


Lauren locked her outstretched fingers around his jaw, effectively muzzling his mouth. Even with the strong grip, the offending paper continued to obstruct his view. Kieran didn’t realize the intentions behind the action; not until it became the herald of blood and bone.

  
  


With a single, fluid movement, Lauren brought the knife down on Anslow’s finger. _Fast._

  
  


_Loud._ Her fist just barely contained the scream of agony that it brought forth. The index fell to the ground with an unceremonious noise.

  
  


_“Answer me! How do you know this man?”_

  
  


Kieran felt the blood drain from his face. In a lightheaded delirium, he tore his eyes away from the dismembered digit on the floor. 

  
  


_This isn’t happening._

  
  


Each of Anslow’s frantic breaths became exponentially more shallow. “Who the _hell_ are you?”

  
  


Kieran’s voice shook as he called out. “We need to _go!”_

  
  


Lauren reeled around to face him. “We go when _I am finished! Is that clear?”_

  
  


The only option was to take a step back, observe the storm from a distance. There, it was safe. There, he could _think._ He could think himself out of the hole he had so willingly dug himself into.

  
  


But, in the midst of the thunder and rain, he found his mind to have been washed pallid and blank.

  
  


“Now, _tell me.”_ Lauren’s shoulders slumped as she was met with silence once more.

  
  


It was to be her loss.

  
  


Despite her fit of rage, she seemed to recognize the impending dangers. _“Now, we go.”_

  
  


Lauren turned, opening the window and climbing through, the crumpled paper still in hand. Kieran could do nothing but follow.

.

.

.

  
  


They stopped in an alley, breaths ragged and morale in the gutter. Whatever had been cause for such ebullition seemed to have left her, leaving nary but a vacant expression and a bloodied knife in hand.

  
  


Kieran tore his mask off, crumpling the damp fabric in his trembling fist. “What the _hell_ was that? Are you _insane?”_

  
  


Perhaps his judgement had taken flight as well. He grabbed her by the shoulders, either oblivious to or beyond caring about the fire he so readily played with. _“Don’t you think you owe me an explanation for this?_ What happened to _‘Everything you know, I know’,_ or have you forgotten?”

  
  


His voice broke in his throat, a weak sound that was rendered lost within itself. Lauren’s eyes were empty and hollow, focused on neither her partner nor the rumpled paper in her cloak’s grasp. Without anything so allconsuming, she could have passed as one of the living dead. She looked up at him, her eyes beginning to flicker with sparks of loathing.

  
  


_“Take your hands off of me.”_

  
  


He was ignorant, and so he persisted. “What was in that photo?”

  
  


It wasn’t much of a question, as much as it was an accusation.

  
  


The look never left her eyes. Something within that paper was parasitical, draining her of the fire he had come to know. Kieran could only assume this dissociated shadow of his partner was the Purple Hyacinth herself.

  
  


His suspicion was soon proven to be quite valid.

  
  


_“I said, get off.”_ Lauren grabbed his shoulders, turning and slamming him into the nearest wall of stone. She pressed her knife heavily against his throat, the alloy still slick with the blood of a man he wished he didn’t know. 

  
  


Her words rang out, toxic and true. _“If you think that you have the reins on this, even for a second, I’ll kill you. Right here.”_

  
  


It seemed he had become expendable. 

  
  


Surrender couldn’t even be considered an option; if his life were to be taken at her hand, it would naturally be by force.

  
  


Needless to say, it was petrifying.

  
  


_So this is what it’s come to. This is what I get._

  
  


Kieran let himself melt into the blade’s edge, allowing its spine to caress his throat. The vice that had become tangible between them had long ago bridled any whisper of virtue remaining. _So why not succumb to it?_

  
  


The fatal temptation rested comfortably on his quickening pulse. Kieran peered down her from over his nose, lips parted and teeth bared. _“I dare you.”_

  
  


_I dare you to kill me. I dare you to regard me as your greatest asset and most fatal mistake._

  
  


_As you are mine._

  
  


Slowly, Lauren pulled her hands from Kieran. His partner, his enemy, and all of the dichotomies in between, sized him up without a word. Her momentary weakness in judgement only served to make her strong. 

  
  


He grounded himself against the wall. “Next time, just pull the damn knife on me beforehand. I’d rather not go through such pleasantries if you plan to screw us both over in the end.”

  
  


He hadn’t been in control, not since he’d held out his unwavering hand to Lauren and spoken of vengeful dreams. He was a slave to the artifice he had assumed to be in his possession.

  
  


And so, Kieran walked away. 

  
  


He let the rain pour down on him, futilely praying that it would scrub him of his flaws. He could only hope that Lauren missed how his hand shook as he pressed to his mouth, the way he attempted to hold in a strangled cry.

.

.

.

  
  


The water from the tap ran far too cold.

  
  


It scraped Kieran with as much bite as his shaving blade as he brushed it across his jaw, picking up soap and hair with each swipe. The basin ran clear with the steady rush from the faucet as he flicked the metal against its side, pulling it back for another stroke. 

  
  


It had perhaps been two days, maybe three, since he’d let himself go. As the shadows faded away, exposing nothing but his own fragile skin, a feeling of childishness overtook him. 

  
  


The water washed away an ample layer of powder from his neck, revealing bruises that still appeared fresh as he gazed upon their reflections. He swiped a wet cloth across his chest and ribs, too, giving rise to small rosy tokens from a more brutal sparring match. The two of them had given into their own angers and agendas, their fists ignited and hearts heavy. The marks hadn’t registered with him at all until the following night. He had stopped thinking of any of them. Stupidly.

  
  


When had he become so _lenient?_ When had he allowed himself to be painted with reds and blues and violets, a canvas for the one he was supposed to loathe?

  
  


_Look at yourself. What a hapless little disgrace._

  
  


The shrill cries of his telephone filled the nocturnal silence as he rubbed the dripping coolness from his shorn and nicked face. Kieran sighed, trudging to his relative death with the gait of a condemned man. He fell back into his desk chair, slumping over as he reached for the screeching instrument.

  
  


Any irritation in his voice was hopefully masked. “Officer White.”

  
  


_“Forgive me for calling so late.”_ The voice on the line was familiar, composed and placid. _“But by the sound of it, it doesn’t seem that I woke you up.”_

  
  


“Chief Sinclair-” Kieran shifted the papers on his desk, making room for him to prop his arm on the cool wood. _“Guilty as charged!_ I had a long night. Couldn’t bring myself to sleep, I guess.”

  
  


Perhaps his commander noted the shuffling. _“It would behoove you to put that notebook away. Maybe then you’d find yourself wanting to rest.”_

  
  


Kieran let his eyes fall upon the mangled book sprawled at the foot of his desk. He longed to have its pages, the miles of notes and fruitless attempts at finding answers, put back into their place between two leather covers. He regretted leaving them split and torn, tacked up in a cavern where he was presumably no longer welcome. “I suppose it was a mistake to tell you about that.”

_“Maybe.”_ He heard footsteps from the other end of the line, each movement amplified by echoes from within the Chief’s enormous dwelling. _“But you’d be far worse off if you’d kept it to yourself.”_

  
  


“It’s nice to break it out, every once in a while.” Kieran reached for the shirt flung over his bed, a clean button-up that would be its own solace compared to the sweat soaked and sootstained one that lay crumpled on his floor. It was a laborious task to shrug it on without knocking the phone from its rather undependable position pressed into the crook of his neck. He tried to struggle through it as quietly, keeping his tone light. “Work today was hectic. I feel like if I closed my eyes to sleep now, it would only make me feel worse.”

  
  


_“Kieran.”_

  
  


He swallowed, pulling his hands back from the buttons they were so desperate to busy themselves with. His fingers wrapped around the phone, each of them rebelling against him in hesitation. “Yes, sir?”

  
  


_“You cannot keep obsessing over the past. We’ve talked about this before.”_

  
  


_“I know._ I know.” Their past conversations, each annual lecture, had been stacked precariously on his mental shelf, collecting dust from the moment they were given life.

  
  


_I feel so right in my actions. Why is it shameful for me to admit?_

  
  


Chief Sinclair’s sigh was audible, laced with enough disappointment to travel across the city through crossed wires. It doused its recipient with disappointment and frigid expectation. _“It’s been ten years, Kieran. A decade of you fretting over things you couldn’t, and can’t, control. It pains me to watch.”_

  
  


“I understand.”

  
  


_“I stand by your need to throw away that notebook. I can’t do it for you, obviously.”_

  
  


Kieran’s laughter was entangled with an exhaustion both ancient and chronic. “That wouldn’t go over too well for either of us, would it?”

  
  


_“No. But, Kieran… what you seek is gone. Dead by the explosion. I wish you’d realize that by now. Your unrelenting investigation and will have gotten you nowhere. Can’t you see how it only hurts you?”_

  
  


“If anyone can see how this all leads to nowhere, it’s me.” He looked out his window, his voice and expression hollow. “But, I promise you, Chief, that I can handle myself.”

  
  


There was silence on the other end. “...Chief Sinclair?”

  
  


His voice edged back in, like he had paused to think. _“I hope you can…”_ he paused. _“You’re aware of the time of year, right?”_

  
  


Kieran rubbed his eyes. “How could I forget?” 

  
  


_“You could visit the manor again, if you’d like. Does... three weeks from now work?”_

  
  


_Same as last year._ “I’ll keep it open.”

  
  


_“Perfect.”_ Sinclair cleared his throat. _“I know you wish we didn’t have to meet, but understand it’s still necessary.”_

  
  


“Alright, Chief. Will you be stopping by the station this week?”

  
  


_“I don’t believe so. There’s been trouble in the Fifth and Eleventh recently. Tonight, especially. Now, for the love of god, get to sleep.”_

  
  


“I’ll try.” Kieran gingerly placed the phone back in its socket, left alone to bask in the silence. 

  
  


_No matter what little light I grasp, I keep finding myself in the dark._

  
  


_Whatever was in that picture, it’s crucial. It has to be._

  
  


There was an aspect of the past, or what he knew it to be, that didn’t fit into the precarious glass tower of truth he had built for himself. Something was missing, or perhaps concealing itself in an act of masquerade.

  
  


Kieran vowed to learn what that fragment was. Even if he had to crawl back to what, or who, he despised most.

  
  


_I’m doing it for you, aren’t I?_

  
  


He was heavily aware that the truth would be far from a reprieve.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes, angst... *sobs* I'm home-
> 
> This chapter was definitely an interesting one to write! I love my OKW, you all know that. My intent was to shine more of a spotlight on Lauren this time around and hopefully highlight some of her intentions and motives- as much as I can at this point. 
> 
> I'm working not to just understand this Lauren, but Lauren in general. What are her most redeeming qualities, her vices? For lack of better words, what makes her tick?
> 
> Yes, Lauren did delete Anslow's finger. No regrets there.
> 
> Onto the next chapter! Thank you for reading <3


	12. Vires Acquirit Eundo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But, for all his talk, Kieran had always known that he’d come running back if the situation arose, with worn feet and bloodied hands all the same. 
> 
> Like the broken Icarus he was, he’d come flying back on smoking, melting wings, time and time again until the fires of Hell burned him beyond repair. Possibly, it was in his nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: we gather strength as we go)_

_ Autoscopic and clad in pearlescent white, Kieran found himself at Allendale. _

  
  


_ The platform he sat on was chasmic in depth, his feet dangling into the abyss below. The tracks were polished and sturdy, strewn with care into uniform ladders. They hummed from the satisfaction of constant use. _

  
  


_ Sunlight fell through the copious windows lining the perimeter, filtered a rust-orange by the midday clouds. It dappled his face playfully as he gazed up to its nexus, smiling, inviting it to fall upon him like a bundle of the softest, warmest feather down. _

  
  


_ He spun a daisy in his grasp, its petals spiraling in the light breeze. The dancing plumes tickled his fingertips. Not yet drained from its pruning, the stem was still crisp and lush against his skin. _

  
  


_ The tracks sang in a crescendo with the approach of a train. It passed Kieran, mammoth in size, wood and metal and majesty in a single locomotive. In his wonder, the daisy flew from his gentle hold, caught in the crosswinds of the machine’s passing by.  _

  
  


_ Any disappointment he gathered from the beauty’s fleeting presence was short lived. _

  
  


_ Clear like the first notes of a novel piano, an eager voice rang out, sharp and then echoing off of the marble passages and columns. “You’d better hold it tighter, next time.” _

  
  


_ It seemed he was not alone. _

  
  


_ Kieran looked further down the platform.  _

  
  


_ Grey hair. A cap. Shorts and a shirt suited for a day of fanfare and celebration. His daisy had been caught by another in some miracle, left mercifully untorn and untainted. _

  
  


_ Kieran cleared his throat with a practiced caution. “I suppose I should.” _

  
  


_ “Do you like daisies?” The boy looked to him curiously, his head cocked to the side, throwing his cap askew. _

  
  


_ “Sure.” _

  
  


_ He pressed the flower to his lips with a cheeky grin. “You should be more careful, then. _ **_No way I’m giving this back.”_ **

  
  


_ “I’ll bet you will.” Kieran chuckled, throwing his head back to revel in the sunshine. It had been a long while since he’d felt such warmth on his face. “But you can keep it. I was never much one for flowers, anyway.” _

  
  


_ The boy held the bloom to his chest, as if it were a treasure. His smile grew wider still, and his hair fell further over his face. “Thanks.” _

  
  


_ The sound of another train coming fell upon them like a crescendo. As it grew, it became darker. The boy’s expression, so simple and crooked in joy, became somber. Smooth like weathered river rocks. _

_ He held up his hand in farewell. “I can repay you! Another day!” _

  
  


_ Kieran waved back. _

.

.

.

  
  


His eyes opened to see his own hand, raised in the air, grasping the morning light in place of what he no longer could have. Instantaneously drained of the little energy his brief slumber had brought, Kieran let his fist fall to his temple, disturbing the sheets draped over his aching form.

  
  


He’d always hated happy dreams.

.

.

.

  
  


With each day that passed, and each inch of snow that caked itself over the ice, Kieran became increasingly more uncertain of his standing. No pact of his was concrete, not since the spat he’d fallen victim to.

  
  


Three moons had risen and set since then.

  
  


He didn’t dare seek Lauren out, nor did he tempt her wrath by returning to the obsolete darkness that would await in her cave. Any hint of his desperation had to be concealed under a facade. His mask served well to hide the worried creases that had found their home around his eyes. 

  
  


That tension had been at a climax until the day prior, when he had overheard March speaking in low tones to Hermann in his office, the utterances not quiet enough to prove an intentional secret. 

  
  


His report on Anslow had proven hopeful, to Kieran’s understanding. A combination of his and Lauren’s actions had led to multiple blackouts both preceding and following their questioning, and a pain-induced trauma had rendered him bereft of any recollection aside from one: his interrogation, conducted by a man. 

  
  


Considering Anslow had seen part of Lauren’s face and heard her speak in ragged tones, it was a small mercy that he’d drifted from consciousness in such a manner. But a mercy granted nonetheless.

  
  


_ It’s probably better off this way. I can’t risk my neck with that assassin any longer. I know better than that. Or at least, I should. _

  
  


His operation looked to have become a solo one. Despite Anslow’s claims of amnesia, there was a possibility that he had withheld his memories with the weapon of a lie; often underestimated, rarely recalled. 

  
  


The detectives seemingly hadn’t uncovered such, but Kieran knew himself to be the only one who could make such a judgement. Any fragment of tainted memory would be a clue that could send him on his way.

  
  


_ “Ugh…  _ Winter sure is hitting like a truck this year.” Randall, along with quite a few of the others, were in low spirits during their midday patrol. 

  
  


The Eleventh Precinct’s morale always seemed to be higher in the summer months, when the sun was clearly visible in the sky and not under masquerade behind imposing walls of clouds. The cold and bogged city air served only as a sedative to the ones in uniform, Kieran being the exception. 

  
  


If anything, the haze worked in opposite effect on his systems, leaving his eyesight hawkish and his pulse low in the midst of winter’s tentative embrace.

  
  


A lethargic shade cast over the city square as people mulled around, eager only to make it to their destinations.

  
  


The objective seemed to hold especially valid for one woman. The entire Precinct’s attention was gathered by the slamming of a shop door, and the ringing of the bells slamming on the hinges in its aftermath. They swiveled around as a unit, training their focus on her. 

  
  


Her features were concealed by a heavy winter coat, but her panic was recognizable. Her hand tightened around a burlap sack clenched in her fist. She muttered a curse, and with her open hand, retrieved a small knife that she waved at the people in blue.

  
  


It wouldn’t suffice, not compared to the myriad drawing of guns across the way. The clicks from each officer’s weapon piled up on top of each other, a metallic hailstorm of its own.

  
  


She turned to run away from the group. Will raised his hand above the officers, effectively garnering their attention. “Officer White and I will pursue! Ladell, you’re in charge of the Precinct!”

  
  


The two men took off running after her, their heavy boots no hindrance in their chase. 

  
  


Maybe it was merely the wind whistling past his ears, or the amplified beating of his heart, but Kieran could’ve sworn he heard the snap of camera shutters.

  
  


He didn’t let himself dwell on it. 

  
  


With a nod to Will, their plan became clear. Kieran split off from the chase, maneuvering over balconies and columns in his climb to the rooftops.

  
  


Below, he saw his compatriot inching closer to their target with every stride. When they reached a suitable corner, Kieran slid from the roofs with ease, falling in front of their quarry with nary a sound. He was more prompt than he thought; the additional moonlight escapades that had found their way into his schedule must have come to sharpen his motions.

  
  


Will smiled at his arrival. He held his pistol readily, his eyes trained intently on the woman. “Surrender and we can resolve this peacefully, ma’am.”

  
  


Kieran steadied his own gun. “There’s no use in trying to run. An entire squadron found you in the act.”

  
  


Will nodded. “Anything you say  _ can  _ and  _ will  _ be used against you in court.”

  
  


“You have the right to an attorney-” Kieran started, running towards the woman from behind. 

  
  


Will mimicked his movements, tossing up pebbles in his wake. “-and if you cannot afford one…”

  
  


With a kick, the woman’s knife clattered uselessly to the street below. Will pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt, promptly restraining her as the instrument’s joints locked into place.

  
  


Kieran stood in front of the pair, gun drawn and a triumphant smile on his face. “One will be provided for you in the interrogation room.”

  
  


He completed their exchange, memorized so avidly that to them, it bore resemblance to a nursery rhyme.

  
  


Kieran and Will operated together, officers, partners in law. But they were so much more.

  
  


They were skinny boys with dirt-pocked faces, using fists instead of cuffs to pin each other down, destroying fields of blooms under their game.

  
  


They were students, wearing only baggy uniforms as they pushed themselves to the brink both as regulars, and eventually, as the more advanced few.

  
  


They were brothers, not bound by blood from within, but by the fountains of crimson that spilled generously between them both.

  
  


That couldn’t be undone.

  
  


The sack had been forsaken on the street, crumpled in on itself like a wilted flower. Kieran holstered his weapon, leaning down to open it. Inside, an ample horde of necklaces glittered and refracted in garish shades against the snow. “Oh, I can see the appeal, these are  _ real treasures.  _ But beauty comes at a literal price, you know that.”

  
  


Will shook his head at the quip, retrieving his radio. “Lieutenant Hawkes speaking. We’re at the intersection of Delph Street and Saint Isadore. The subject is in custody. With-”

  
  


The woman cried out, silencing him in her desperation. “Please!  **It’s for my mother!”**

  
  


The Lieutenant started, his mouth softening.

  
  


“I know what I did was wrong,  **but she’s ill and I need to pay for her treatment!”**

  
  


It was all lies. But Will wasn’t aware.

  
  


His radio crackled.  _ “Lieutenant? Do you read?” _

  
  


Will shook from his stupor. “Yes. Sorry, please bring a car over. Thanks.”

  
  


Kieran approached the woman, his jaw clamped harshly.  _ “Whether or not  _ you had noble intentions, you neglected to use common sense. You’re of no help to your  _ mother  _ behind bars, are you?”

  
  


He leaned down to her hunched figure. “Considering no one was hurt, it’s likely you’ll get off with only a fine. But next time, think a bit more carefully before opting to rob a jewelry store in 

broad daylight.”

  
  


In a flash of sirens, harried conversation, and liberties signed away with a cold brass pen, the woman was whisked away in a police car without another word. Kieran and Will were left alone in the passage.

  
  


Kieran noticed the stony expression on his friend’s face. “We’d better head back before Kym makes the executive decision to decimate our ranks over something stupid.”

  
  


He heaved a sigh, raking his fingers through his hair. Though close-cropped, the wind had played with it, leaving it rather tangled. “Or before she abandons her more expendable comrades in a search for melon.”

  
  


The two of them shared a laugh.

  
  


Will had often looked tired as of late, his shoulders slumped under an invisible load.

  
  


“Listen.” Kieran looked to the sidewalk. “You’re under no obligation to talk to me about your problems. But it seems like something’s been bothering you…”

  
  


Will moved to speak up, probably some reassurance of his wellbeing, but Kieran waved a hand in front of his face. “And that’s alright! Just know that I can lend an ear anytime, if you need it.”

  
  


“Thanks.” He pinched his mouth into a weary grin, always graceful in his attempts at nonchalance. “I won’t lie and say nothing is wrong, but you know me.  _ I’ll handle it.” _

  
  


Kieran grimaced. Will was probably the most earnest person he knew. No lie had ever passed his lips, stronger in his vows than the former. Burdening others with his trouble would be considered a punishment unto himself.

  
  


He’d always been that way. As a boy, a student, and a man,  _ he’d handle it. _ He always had, or at least painted an authentic impression of it.

  
  


“Is it your mother?” Kieran posed the question tentatively, quieter than his usual rough tones.

  
  


“Among other things, yes…” Will buried his face in his gloved hand. “Sorry-”

  
  


Kieran put a hand on his shoulder.  _ “Don’t apologize.  _ I know. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  
  


He felt his partner ease under his palm.

  
  


“You know what? We’re getting drinks again soon. I demand it.”

  
  


_ “Oho, alright.”  _ Will sneered at him, grasping at the change in subject. “We’ll see how  _ that  _ goes after last time.”

“Maybe we can sneak past Ladell.”

  
  


“She’d never let that pass…” He chuckled. “It’ll be a nice distraction, though. For me, and for you. You unrelenting insomniac.”

  
  


Kieran raised his hands up in defense. “I’ll be the first to admit it.”

  
  


“Let’s make our way back, shall we?” Will raised his posture, and began to traipse back out to the more crowded roads.

  
  


Lingering behind a couple steps, Kieran watched his friend turn to shadow in the sun. Following in his tracks, he wondered about how long his unbreakably strong silhouette would last.

  
  


_ Your walls have been up for far too long. Break them down, before they break you. _

  
  


_ I care too much to let you fall victim to yourself. _

  
  


Under layers of denial, Kieran knew that his actions mirrored his friend’s. Somewhere along the line, they had wordlessly decided that each of their problems, to the other, were nothing at all. They would parry and deflect each other’s inquiries and concerns until there was nothing else to give. And it cycled, their emotional proximities aside.

  
  


_ But then again, maybe we each should stop playing this game of pretend. _

  
  


They came across the Precinct huddled in an awkward throng around a food cart, Kym leaning on it with a generous slice of watermelon in hand. The juice ran down her fingers, staining her gloves and freezing in decisive pink rivulets. She shared the sticky pleasure with Will, shoving a hand in his face upon their return.  _ “A job well done, manservants! _ Now tell these meatbags to step in line, Lieutenant, we’ve got work to do.”

  
  


The officers moved from their shivering clusters, hesitant to return to patrol but eager to thaw the rime from their motionless bones. Kieran took the rear of the phalanx, scoping out their position within the city’s urban sprawl as they walked with a single, steady gait. Every rooftop and fleeting alley reminded him of the multitude of spaces he needed to pare through so urgently.

  
  


He found yet another question to be posed.

  
  


_ How can I find the answers I seek without her? _

  
  


His observations were cut short as he felt a smack behind his knees. He fell into the sleet without a sound, save for a light grunt. The ridges of rocks and ice scratched his back as he felt a pull on his collar. With the ease of a child to a ragdoll, he was promptly dragged into the neighboring backstreet.

  
  


From a debilitating position he strained his neck, looking up to see a pair of furious eyes of aureate returning his gaze.

  
  


“Speak of the Devil,” Kieran simpered, smirking into the cobblestone. “How I’ve  _ missed _ you.”

.

.

.

  
  


Lauren corrected her posture, brushing herself off as she turned to pace. “We need to talk.”

  
  


_“Talk?”_ In a moment of nerve, Kieran spat at her feet, earning himself a harsh kick to the sternum. He staggered to prop himself up on his elbows, disregarding the pain that soon blossomed in his chest. “If I’m not mistaken, you intended to kill me last time we convened.”

  
  


“You’re of more use to me alive than dead. Considering you haven’t bled out in a random alley, that much should be obvious.”

  
  


“Your motivation levels are surprising, considering how…  _ detached  _ you’ve been. No breathers on your part?”

  
  


“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lauren tugged at her sleeves, her jaw set with stony assurance. “If anything, what I’ve learned is just another reason that the Scythe must wither and die. And believe me,  _ will it ever.” _

  
  


Her usual perseverance aside, something new had sprouted within her, had taken hold of her voice and heart. 

  
  


“What a relief.” Kieran crept up to his knees, pitched over himself as he assessed the odds of the question on his lips. He released it with an air of casualty and a light shrug.  _ “So. _ What the hell did you see in Anslow’s notebook?”

  
  


She surveyed him with a look of disgust.

  
  


“What’s important to  _ me  _ is likely nothing to  _ you.  _ I’d share if it were otherwise. This is more personal…” Her eyes flicked down to her feet, before meeting his own with intensity. “It won’t come to light again, not when it’s irrelevant. But I can’t say I’m sorry for my actions. It was in my best interest.”

  
  


Kieran shuddered. The memory of their last encounter fell upon him in a shower of blood and steel.

  
  


_ Don’t think about it. Not now. _

  
  


As he stood, he let his voice drop. 

  
  


In the past both distant and recent, in life both professional and private, he’d been able to play people like violins, had made them sing like one’s resin-coated strings. When he reached a steady position on his feet, he mused to test the assassin’s limits. 

  
  


“How very  _ weak.” _

  
  


Lauren’s immediate reaction proved him both correct and successful.

  
  


The teething sound of metal and the mechanical snaps of his pistol filled the frosted air. Within moments, they stood at an impasse. The muzzle of Kieran’s gun pressed between Lauren’s brows, and her blade rested along the arc of his jaw. 

He made to shift it from his face to no avail. “I’m honestly surprised at how you let your emotions bridle you. This is pertinent to the investigation. If you don’t tell me, I’ll find it out myself.”

  
  


“I’d like to see you try.”

  
  


A snarl rose in his throat. “I’ll have you know,  _ Rosenthal,  _ that I was a detective up until a year ago. I was kicked off the Investigation Unit for one, outstanding reason: when I  _ desperately  _ want information, I get it.  _ And I don’t care what it takes.” _

  
  


_ Or maybe I cared too much. _

  
  


_ I cared too much about his words, and what he held in relation to me. _

  
  


_ I lost control. _

  
  


Kieran started, the mouth of his gun faltering ever so slightly against her temple.

  
  


He pulled the weapon back, rubbing its steel against the blue wool of his coat. “Need I remind you that  _ I  _ was the one who found that information in the first place?”

  
  


“It was a picture that he shouldn’t have had, and shouldn’t have been taken. That’s more than you need to know.”

  
  


She had adapted, as always, treating language as another weapon in her arsenal. Hindering him by speaking in incomplete prose and half truths.

  
  


And he was  _ sick  _ of it.

  
  


“Don’t  _ bullshit  _ me, Lauren! I’m not some bloodhound that you can just  _ throw off _ by displacing the evidence!” 

  
  


His outburst yielded no response, save for a glare that held a bit more fervor than the moments before.

  
  


He holstered his weapon, and she hers. Kieran sighed. “We’re lucky Anslow doesn’t remember your little slip-up. At least, he hasn’t admitted to it.”

  
  


“Of course. My actions are my responsibility, **and calculated.”** She let her eyes flit towards the road’s mouth, her body following with decisive footsteps. “Unlike you, I haven’t spent the last three days thinking of such  _ cutting  _ rebuttals. I’ve taken a look into Beatrice Blakesly. We’ll prep the file tonight, and pay her a visit this Thursday.”

  
  


His brows tented against her assumption. “Why do you assume I’m still in on this?” 

  
  


Her response was simple and effective, like a swipe of her knife. “Because you need me.”

  
  


He wished he could have refused her then. 

  
  


But, for all his talk, Kieran had always known that he’d come running back if the situation arose, with worn feet and bloodied hands all the same. 

  
  


Like the broken Icarus he was, he’d come flying back on smoking, melting wings, time and time again until the fires of Hell burned him beyond repair. Possibly, it was in his nature.

  
  


For it was in his nature that, for so long, caused people to yield to him with a word, or two, from either of their mouths.

  
  


In his nature lay dormant his need to do no lingering harm to any around him, save for himself.

  
  


He needed her.

  
  


The information he sought after would be his alone to find. But the rest of his answers would be found in an act of two.

  
  


Kieran swallowed, a sense of finality tangible in his words. 

  
  


“I won’t be late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting another chapter out within a week? We love to see it. Hopefully not at a compromise of quality!
> 
> I've been toying with the length of these chapters, so it's been a bit inconsistent. I've really been relying on the pacing of canon to determine where and when each chapter ends, which works for the most part. Hope the inconsistency isn't too noticeable!
> 
> Gotta say, dream sequences are WEIRD. It was fun to fashion one for Kieran. Make of it what you will-
> 
> Thanks for reading! Sending love out to you <3


	13. Vae Victis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kieran had another case upon his shoulders. And, if not by the ink welling from his pen, he would get to the bottom of it with the blood siphoned from his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: woe to the conquered)_

_It shouldn’t have unfurled like this._

  
  


Strangely enough, despite recent events, Kieran had crept through Beatrice Blakesly’s window with an air of confidence. A corrosive mix of his past successes and failures had given way to a sense of familiarity. Having, up to that point, been able to coax answers out of suspects so surely as a confession from a child, he had left himself cocksure and negligent.

  
  


“-and thank you for your cooperation. You have my sincere-”

  
  


His voice spiked as the door flew open, new and aqueous light from the hallway flooding in and nearly drowning the duo. Fleets of men clad in uniform darkness charged into the room. The one at the hull had kicked the door open, a cutlass raised above his head. _“Miss Blakesly!”_

  
  


Her nose scrunched in triumph against her blindfold. “Took you long enough!” She turned in the general direction of her captors. “How foolish do you think me, _Lune?_ After seeing my associates drop like flies these past few days? Unlike them, I’m not so careless.”

  
  


With a nod of her chin, the men in black proceeded towards their targets, their collective gait picking up traction as they approached.

  
  


Kieran and Lauren paced backwards in tandem, treading lightly on the newly crowded floors. After exchanging signals tacit yet clarion, they turned and scampered out the window. It was already haphazardly flung open.

  
  


The duo took to the rooftops, with the guards trailing close behind. The men’s heavy footfalls echoed in the night, contrasting the lithe steps of their own. Blakesly’s yells of frustration at their sudden departure were barely audible in the wake of the hunt.

  
  


A knife whistled past Kieran’s ear, and he dodged it aptly. A loud clatter soon rose from the sidewalk many feet below.

  
  


On the roof of the building three marks north of the Blakesly manor, Lune found themselves to be cornered.

  
  


Kieran drew his gun, and heard Lauren’s sword come unsheathed behind him. Back to back they stood, their arms of choice held in front of them, holding off the sable current of monsters and men surrounding them.

  
  


He heard the assassin murmur behind him. _“Keep your head on. Diffuse before engaging. Okay?”_

  
  


A grunt of assent served as his response. They broke their halt in action, charging towards their opponents with torrential initiative.

The bite of steel against steel in Kieran’s periphery brought his hackles to a raise as he moved to dodge an attacker on his own. He dug the toes of his boots into the roof’s shingles as he moved, distributing his balance conservatively with movements almost lynxlike in matter. He felt his back contort to painful angles to maneuver around a vicious swipe of a blade, parrying it back with the neck of his gun. 

Kieran found himself inching down the roof’s incline as he dodged and struck, taking out man after man with a hit from his gun’s muzzle or a sweep of his legs. Yet they seemed to multiply in like to an affliction, inching closer, bringing him one step further to suffocation.

  
  


The shingle below his heel gave way, leaving him to slide, one leg near falling into the urban abyss below. His shoulders tensed as he hooked his steadier foot into the eaves, angling to pull himself back up. A moment of hindrance.

  
  


Like a silhouette cut from the darkest paper, an enemy came above Kieran, sword raised with intent. It cast a shadow over his eyes in contrast to the pallid moonlight. 

  
  


An instinct within him caused his shoulders to tense, his jaw to lock. But his eyes remained wide open.

  
  


In some tangible nightmare, his assailant’s head fell with a swipe of silver from behind, splattering him with a thousand ruby droplets of undiluted blood.

  
  


Kieran blinked it from his eyes, not daring to raise a hand to wipe the spray from his face. It fell in rills down his cheeks, vermillion tears over a stony facade carved harshly into ice. In the midst of the shock, his pulse felt far too low.

  
  


Above him, his slain attacker teetered, falling like a broken bird. The cadaver rolled from the roof, the dismembered head soon following, leaving nothing but morbid stains in its appalling wake.

  
  


His eyes flew upwards, slowly, on the precipice of a sight both horrible and good.

  
  


Lauren stood over him, her sword raised in a sort of reverence, the hilt and blade slick with crimson. Her glare had taken on a hawklike quality, wide and aware. Another emotion painted what he could see of her face, reminiscent of anger but less base, armed and barbed with something more. One more foolish might have claimed to see fear. It was anything but.

  
  


She wore a mask of cold and utter vigor, her hair flying from under her cap like the tattered ribbons of a demon’s wings.

  
  


Kieran had always considered her one of them, demons. Maybe close to a devil. 

  
  


One who had saved his life, hadn’t let him choke on his own folly.

  
  


In that moment of impassive time, another marauder approached Lauren from the rear. Sparing him nary a glance, she twisted the hilt of her sword, adjusting her position. With a thrust of its pommel, she made deft contact with his head. He crumpled to the ground, wilted and thoroughly unconscious. But, his shallow breaths filled the air, the feeble rise and fall of his chest still evident.

  
  


_She never kills without reason._

  
  


With no whisper of paralysis, no hint of nausea, Kieran let his eyes drop to the man’s collapsed form. Falling deeper, they grazed the crimson blemish on the roof, and the broken corpse stories below.

  
  


_She killed for me._

  
  


Her actions had come at a greater cost than the time prior. The life of a man. 

  
  


And yet, Kieran felt nothing.

  
  


Perhaps he was merely grateful. He could let the morbidity of it all leave him, like something more ephemeral. What sickened him in the end was that his heart, it seemed, would willingly accept such bloodshed if it was to his own fortune and gain.

  
  


Lauren swung her sword over her back, ambling carefully down the roof shingles to where Kieran had fallen. She held out a bloodsoaked hand. “Are you alright?”

  
  


He nodded breathlessly, taking her hand in his. He hoisted himself back onto the rooftop with apparent ease. No words passed between the two of them as they brushed themselves off, stepped over the mangled garden of unconscious bodies, and slipped further into, and then beyond, the cover of the precious night.

.

.

.

  
  
  


The blood had caked over Kieran’s face, matted into his hair and eyelashes. As he swiped water across his skin, it thinned like watercolor or gouache paints from a canvas. It dripped down his cheeks, paved a path along his jaw, each rivulet collecting and dripping from his chin onto the cave floor. 

  
  


Across the cavern, Lauren performed a similar ritual. She palmed a strip of linen across her neck, scrubbing the waste from her arms, the creases between her fingers.

  
  


Quite a bit of time had passed since Kieran had last felt so unconventionally frayed.

  
  


Lauren’s shirt stuck to her skin, the cloth bloodied both on the inside and out. She tugged it up over her form. Pulling it into a loop, it tapered at her sternum. Her back, her shoulders, her hips, were all painted with scars in a pocked and rutted tapestry.

  
  


Some stretched in long, unforgiving crescents, others were miniscule. Many had grown white and puckered from age. A few bore the marks of sutures. The memory of a needle still seemed to be ripe, with jagged stitches printed in pale, spectral shades. Others, born that night, were open gashes, bleeding lazily.

  
  


Lauren grabbed for a bandage on the table, the roll of cotton glowing white against the stains. She moved to pull it around herself, and Kieran found himself cringing at her movements. “You’re going to ruin the bandage, if you let the blood soak in like that.”

  
  


She spun to face him. Her countenance became tainted with irritability, languid and tired, beaten down from something chronic and pressing. “I’ve gone through this routine before. I’m fine.”

  
  


With decisive footsteps, Kieran paced to her side, holding out his hand. Lauren bit her lip, in stoic turmoil, before relenting. She dropped the dressings into his palm unceremoniously.

  
  


He soaked a spare rag in his bucket, the wet cloth dripping into miniscule puddles across the stone below. He stepped through the excess, careful to keep the rest of the liquid absorbed. Gently, he pressed it to the largest gash, which stretched around her waist, piercing through skin to embrace the small of her back. It was shallow, but gaping. When the blood washed away and revealed only skin, raw and real, it was intimidating no more. Just a cut.

  
  


The other scratches, the seeping nicks and rips, followed suit. They were cleansed, washed clean, left raw and cold. Lauren leaned into his touch as he did so, accepting the sting and dogged ache.

  
  


The bruises sat untarnished upon Kieran’s throat, too, the ghosts of Lauren’s fingertips exposed in full color and torment to the night air. The blood and disguise had been washed from both of them, by the touch of frigid cave water on linen rags.

  
  


Together, they were so delightfully broken.

  
  


Kieran reached for the bandage from where he had dropped it, pulling the cloth over Lauren. She extended her arms from her sides in acquiescence, though obviously displeased. 

  
  


Kieran reached to her front from behind, pressing the fabric’s end to her abdomen, wrapping it around the curve of her ribs. He wound it around, keeping it tight but gentle, a grip strong but tentative. He brought it over her tied shirt, already soaked clean, and draped it over her shoulders. He put one end of the ligature in his mouth, tugging it taut with his teeth as he braced the other end in his fingers. Through his clenched jaw, he found himself speaking in relativities, noise to fill the air. “Just about done.”

  
  


He pulled his neck back, snapping the gauze. It lay flat on her skin, cradling the wounds so that none of the open gashes, and few of the old, could be seen.

  
  


Kieran moved to the bottom of his work, tying the remains in a knot at the small of her back. The realization lurking in the depths of his heart was something he had tried to assuage, to no avail. It had worked its way up and into his throat. His words came out a stutter. “You-”

  
  


His breath faltered. “You shouldn’t have saved me.”

  
  


For good reason, she’d been scarred in the past. A stroke in exchange for a life, blood she would bleed in punishment. But Kieran still found himself amidst a bout of guilt.

  
  


Was that all he was to become? Another misstep, another mark in her menagerie?

  
  


Kieran felt her tense under his lingering hands. “What?”

  
  


He nodded to himself. “I was a hindrance.”

  
  


Lauren turned her chin, facing him with a blank stare. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know well enough that I need you here as much as you need me.”

  
  


_This is mutual. I often find myself forgetting._

  
  


She exhaled. “Next time, a _thank you_ would suffice.”

  
  


_“Well, then.”_ He grinned languidly. “Thank you, Lauren Rosenthal. I owe you my life.”

  
  


He moved to their board, tacking up a sheet of hastily scribbled notes. The soft fluttering of cotton behind him, and steps in his wake, gave hint to Lauren approaching him from behind, a clean shirt draped over her frame.

  
  


Some sort of reparation was in order. 

  
  


Kieran opened his mouth and averted his eyes, his voice choked. “When people lie, I can hear a change in the pitch of their voice.”

  
  


The footsteps behind him ceased. “Oh?”

  
  


“Even in the most subtle lies… like when you pick up on sarcasm, you know?”

  
  


“Okay.” She accepted his words carefully, weighing them in quiet thought.

  
  


“But just because I catch the lie doesn’t mean I find the truth.” Eager to busy his hands, Kieran adjusted a newspaper that had been haphazardly hung a few nights prior. “There are often far too many possibilities. And I can only hear the lie if the speaker blatantly disbelieves their words.”

  
  


“So if someone truly believes something that is objectively false-”

  
  


“I wouldn’t be able to tell.” He clenched his jaw. “And I’ve always been this way.”

  
  


For a moment, there was silence.

  
  


“Why only reveal this to me now?”

  
  


He turned to face her. “Why not reveal your findings to me? An eye for an eye.”

  
  


Lauren’s eyes narrowed, her teeth clenched. “Because it’s _irrelevant. And I already acknowledged my actions.”_ Each mention of that encounter, however small, had an effect akin to pushing on a bruise. It ached, spattering the air with violets and yellows and unsightly blues. “Honestly. For an _ex-detective,_ your interrogation tactics leave much to be desired.”

  
  


_Ouch._

  
  


Bruises indeed.

  
  


“I’ve come to learn that my abilities aren’t so advantageous when I become desperate.” He cracked his knuckles. “For someone so harried in their search for answers, I find myself wondering how your code came to be. _Why_ is obvious enough. But how? How do you get by without taking unnecessary life?”

  
  


She lowered her eyes. “The way I live, it lends itself to a lot of dark roads. Obviously. You need to draw a line. Or else, you’ll go too far, and it’ll be too late.”

  
  


Before she moved to analyze their papers, Kieran caught the way her gaze had gone dark. _Like droplets of blood refracting off a crystal chandelier._

  
  


“I see.” Kieran braced himself against the desk chair, his hands in want of something steady to hold. From his position, he peered cautiously under the main chest of the table.

  
  


Another cabinet lay underneath. Intentions and obligations of his visits prior had kept the chests out of his sight, but upon his noticing of them, they became magnetic. Kieran’s curiosity was quickly taunted and bested. He would deal with the consequences as they came.

  
  


His fingers trailed over the drawers, landing on the foremost handle. 

Tugging it open, briskly and without sound, he peered in to see its contents.

  
  


A single brown cap.

  
  


_No._

  
  


The cavern went cold.

  
  


It was so unlikely, near an impossibility, that it belonged to _him._

  
  


_But if it did, and this is his, then this is my chance._

  
  


_But I have to save my shot._

  
  


Kieran’s trance was broken as the drawer was slammed close from above. Lauren looked to him coldly, her hand lingering on the knob.

  
  


He swallowed, suppressing the phantom memories. He hoped his voice came out without the frost that bit him so viciously. “Is that yours?”

  
  


“Right.” She laughed, more of a bark than anything, raw and discordant. “Just a souvenir, you could say. From someone I used to know.”

  
  


“Hmm.” His hands felt heavy around the drawer, his being turned to stone.

  
  


“And, Kieran?” She leaned down to his level, her eyes wide. “Don’t go through my things. You’re probing what you don’t understand. It needs to stop. Is that clear?”

  
  


_Crystal._ The implications of his punishment were laced in the question itself. Kieran’s face thawed, and he allowed himself to smirk in spite of it all.

  
  


“You have my word, _darling.”_

  
  


She swallowed, nodding. “Wonderful.”

  
  


Lauren moved back to the board, probing the sheets for answers. “Now, we can move on to Ned Colden. We got quite the lead out of Blakesly tonight.”

  
  


All that Lauren shared was the truth and nothing less. But each syllable was a bullet, dropped and scattered upon the cave floors; clues that Kieran would be adverse not to scramble for, to sift through with his own fingers. But it seemed that she still had much to hide.

  
  


Kieran would fain to keep his gun cocked and loaded.

  
  


As Lauren began to recount Blakesly’s confessions, Kieran lowered himself into the desk chair. He grabbed a pen, clicking it open and denoting her words in a skeletal print.

  
  


With his lesser hand, he grabbed a spare pencil, inscribing at the foot of the sheet in front of him in a more frantic, untidy scrawl:

  
  


_Hat~His?_

_‘Souvenir from one she used to know’~?_

  
  


Years of working out of necessity whilst feeling a fervor to draw had trained him to split himself in two. To be both rapt in his duties while letting himself float away, his thoughts leaving him like dandelion fluff swept away by an unforeseen breeze. Such actions of duality had become ubiquitous in his work and way of life. 

  
  


The trait of ambidexterity had proven itself useful time and time again. The ability would succeed again that night, as he both took in Lauren’s words and put his own notions to ink.

  
  


Quietly, he tore the end of the paper off, tucking the stray shred into his pocket. He continued to write, copying down Lauren’s recollection with an expression of ice.

  
  


Kieran had another case upon his shoulders. And, if not by the ink welling from his pen, he would get to the bottom of it with the blood siphoned from his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize the irony of having Lauren say "Keep your head on" to Kieran, then proceeding to behead someone, until I had finished the draft. But I got a kick out of it, so here we are-
> 
> I gave the fic a bit of polishing! 
> 
> 1) I changed the synopsis a bit! Still not in love with it so it might change again LOL
> 
> 2) We have a chapter count now (Yay!) Assuming I can be decisive for once and stick to the plan I have, there will be 23 chapters total. We've just about passed the middle mark! Wow!
> 
> 3) The chapter names are all in Latin, derived from various words and proverbs. I have such a wonderful time selecting and creating them, and I wanted to make sure you all could see the meanings behind them! If you're ever curious, I put in the AN at the beginning of each chapter a rough translation. Enjoy-
> 
> My flow was a little iffy as I drafted this chapter, but overall, I really am quite pleased with how it turned out. Hope you guys enjoyed as much as I did! Thanks for reading-
> 
> And~ y'all should check out [@artsofisha](https://www.instagram.com/artsofisha/) on instagram, or [Thumbipeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thumbipeach/pseuds/thumbipeach)! She's got me sobbing over my new PFP :''''D <3


	14. Atra Mors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Criminal?_ I much prefer the term _'vigilante'-"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: Dreadful Death)_
> 
> _(also in reference to the Black Death)_

“This isn’t a request, it’s a  _ plea.” _ Will rubbed his eyes, exasperated. “Kieran, for the love of all things good, can’t you please just… wear your uniform normally?”

  
  


From his position, head propped lazily on the back of his desk chair, Kieran reached for a pen, scratching into the spare paper sheets in front of him. Without sparing a glance, he scrawled out a flower, a streetlamp, the moon, ghosts of them on the parchment. “No, Lieutenant.”

  
  


The fine line of interaction as superior-to-subordinate and friend-to-friend was one that Kieran and Will tread upon frequently, often with care. Another procedure between them, all of them practiced and polished like silver at the hand of time.

  
  


Both in terms of daylight and activity, the morning had come to be rather dull. Kieran had allowed himself to become disheveled- his vest unbuttoned, the collar of the shirt underneath popped and undone, and his tie loosened to fall against his sternum. It bothered Will to no end, but the reason for such a preference was owed to the heaviness in his bones, the hollowed ache in his throat. The way that Will hovered over him, waspish and seething, was more of an entertaining compensation for his fatigue.

  
  


With outstretched fingers and a tense look of plea, Will gestured to his Kieran’s hunched figure. “Would it hurt to look somewhat decent?”

  
  


“Dressing comfortably within the confines of the office hurts no one but myself.”

  
  


He clenched a fist slowly, nodding with conviction. “I’m going to the archives. If you don’t fix yourself, I might- just, please fix yourself.”

  
  


Naturally, as Will faded from view, Kieran sat up, slipped the top button of his shirt back through its hole, tugged his tie back over his throat with one eye trained on the door. The vest remained undone, and the fabric hugged his shoulders lazily.

  
  


Lila spun in her chair to face the others, the gossamer of her blouse shifting in the morning light. “I assume you’ve all heard that Beatrice Blakesly’s to be put to trial tomorrow.”

  
  


“The Seventh’s been watching her for some time now.” Grumpy Cat looked nearly as lethargic as Kieran felt, fingering the gun set on his desk with a lazy fervor. “The worst ones put up the best fights, and give us the best shows. It’s hilarious to think about.”

  
  


He scowled as one of his fellow officers passed his desk for what was not the first, and would likely not be the last time that morning.

  
  


With movements like clockwork, Harvey had been passing the office’s coffee table in some ritual, swiping a spare filter or plastic mixer from one of the piles. He held them behind his back, shoved a few in his pocket, in some parody of stealth unlikely to pass in a room of people trained to detect such actions.

  
  


In his motions, he deposited them onto the cluttered surface of Kym’s desk. She sat with legs crossed, hunched over the wooden surface, neglecting the uniform pile of paperwork on her left. The metal scissors she had laced her fingers through were small, their purpose not to cut anything more than a loose thread or slit a sheet of plastic. She wielded them with expert motions. No coffee filter was spared, each crimped and clipped into an abstract shape. A pile of similar ones perched on her other side, cut with exquisite patterns like paper doilies, fluttered in the wake of her movements. 

  
  


Amidst her work, she spoke in distracted tones. “We’ve already got two Scythe members behind bars thanks to Lune.” With rapturous eyes trained on the table of loot, she gestured to Harvey. “A third, and the courts might start worshipping them.”

  
  


“They piss off Hermann more by the day.” Kieran twirled his pen over his fingers. The night prior, he had been the half of Lune to leave a parcel in the Seventh Precinct. His Captain’s yells of frustration were distinct and practically echoed throughout the office as he’d ambled in for an early round of patrol. The sounds had bounced off of him, practically. Kieran couldn’t find it within himself to react, nothing beyond feeling the weight of another suspicion fall upon his shoulders.

  
  


Kym dropped her scissors, slid her forearm across her desk to wipe the powdering of clippings aside. She took one of the stirrers between two fingers, and pushed one of her more ornate filters over the tip. “It’s not like that’s a  _ difficult  _ thing to do. His ego’s fragile and his anger’s explosive. He’s probably prepping to call us to arms at this very moment. Harvey, more filters.”

  
  


“Sarge, I shouldn’t-” He fidgeted. “Don’t we need to keep them for… you know-  _ coffee?” _

  
  


Back from his excursion, Will’s hands dropped to his sides, the sheets in his fists fluttering in his exasperation. “Ladell! I didn’t recall giving you permission to plant a  _ garden  _ on your desk, or am I mistaken?”

  
  


“Hey!” Kym snapped her fingers, pointing at her creations. “I’ve worked hard to cultivate this!”

  
  


“You two, I swear. Kieran, button up-”

  
  


Kieran sneered, wringing his thumbs through the sleeves of his vest with a tug. “I give you an inch, you demand a mile!”

  
  


“- Kym, clean up. And Harvey, I apologize for whatever shenanigans you’ve been dragged into.”

  
  


Harvey stepped back from the trio, palms raised in defense. “Oh, actually, Sarge-”

  
  


“ _ Where-”  _ Lukas reeled around from his spot at the coffee table, his gravelly timbre louder 

than usual, garnering the attention of the entire room.  _ “Are all the damn filters?” _

  
  


The officers shrugged as a collective. As individuals, their reactions were equal parts entertained, indifferent, or terrified. Harvey’s eyes went wide, falling prey to Randall’s baleful glare. Lila stiffened, and sat up from her chair, her skirt flouncing behind her as she exited the room with footsteps quick yet uniform.

  
  


Randall’s knuckles whitened as he dug his fists into the tabletop. The fingers of one hand extended outwards, as if beckoning to the pistol set on his desk mere feet away. “It is when I don’t get my coffee, that _ somebody gets hurt.” _

  
  


Harvey, had someone called him out, would have been as good as dead. He was well aware, judging by the shaken malleability of his face.

  
  


The office door swung open. Modest sunshine bounced off of Lila’s spectacles from over the top of a crate, stuffed to the brim with burlap sacks and paper squares. She dropped it to the table unceremoniously, brushing off the front of her blouse. “These aren’t the best kind, but should work, Lukas.”

  
  


Randall turned to her slowly, his rage still imminent. For a moment, his eyes bore into hers, and she stiffened against his glare. His countenance melted, ever so slightly, as he reached for one of the filters. “Thank you.”

  
  


The gratitude of Grumpy Cat, which he so sparingly delved out like meager rations of dessert, took Lila by surprise. With tentative steps, she backed away from the coffee press, smiling to herself.

  
  


Having avoided an impending storm, the office activities resumed ad nauseum.

  
  


_ “Kieran. Hey.” _

  
  


“Hey.” He lifted his head, falling back into his chair. Kym crouched in front of his desk, hands pressed together behind her back.

  
  


With a flourish and a flick of her wrist, she held out a bunch of her makeshift flowers, the filters threaded onto the stirrers in some surge of creativity. Her voice dripped with verve, mocking and plum, as she presented the impromptu bouquet. “For you, sir.”

  
  


Kieran bowed his head in gratitude. He took the paper flora and set it down in front of his work. “Immaculate, as always.”

  
  


She grinned, all teeth, incisors flashing in the sun. “I have my little  _ Errand Boy  _ to get the goods for me! Got to take advantage, you know?”

  
  


“How very rude.” 

  
  


“Oh, he’s alright with it!” She waved to Harvey, her gestures animated. “We’ve got a 

good system, don’t we,  _ Errand Boy?” _

  
  


He shrunk under her touch.  **“Sure.”**

  
  


As Harvey left them looking more wilted than the inanimate blooms he had unknowingly helped cultivate, Kieran adjusted the latter on his desk with a finger, setting the petals into a more favorable position. “Commandeering the kindest ones, like usual.”

  
  


“You know me.”

  
  


With his easy-going demeanor and apathy towards none, Harvey was genuinely well-liked. Along with his more positive traits, Kym had taken note of his pliability, his eagerness to please. With her quick speech and higher rank, it didn’t take long for her to render Harvey subject to her every whim.

  
  


She peered over his shoulder, scrutinizing something behind. “Your ribbon’s all tattered.”

  
  


“Kym, it’s always been like that.” He turned to show her as much, flicking his pen against his palm. Her eyes, when lacking their usual merriment, were constantly analyzing, predicting. More than he ever had before, Kieran longed to shy away from it.

  
  


Kym had always been clever. It hurt to think that she was someone to be avoided if need be.

  
  


“My apologies, I don’t waste my time staring at  _ the back of your head.”  _ She shifted her gaze back to Kieran. From under her lashes, her tawny eyes narrowed with suspicion. “All okay with you?’

  
  


“Right as rain, Sergeant. Why, does my manner offend you?”

  
  


“I don’t know-” She shook her head. “You seem… sedated? Almost?”

  
  


_ “Sedated?” _

  
  


“C’mon. Don’t make me…” She rapped her knuckles along his desk. “You aren’t being  _ fun.” _

  
  


Maybe on a day prior, Kieran would have egged Kym on, but he took no humor in what he’d seen, nor any disdain. He looked upon his coworkers, the office, his actions, with numbness. It wasn’t a horrible feeling.

  
  


“I’m terrible, I know.” He took a swig from his mug, letting the harsh liquid bite into his throat. “Just… tired.”

  
  


“Fine.” She grabbed her flowers from their perch and patted Kieran’s head with the blooms. He ducked under them, a weary smile growing on his face, as she turned on her heel, shrugging. “Your issue.”

  
  


His issue. He dwelled on it from within the walls he had cultivated around himself.

  
  


_ You’re probing things you don’t understand. It needs to stop.  _

  
  


_ Is that clear? _

  
  


He couldn’t put his finger on what sunk down upon him.

  
  


_ If I neglect to search for you on her behalf, what does that make me? _

  
  


Kieran reached up, brushed a few unruly strands of hair back out of his face. He let his fingers rest on the ribbon at the nape of his neck, let them catch in the knot. He had opted for the gold today.

  
  


Perhaps Kieran was just sentimental, in his own right.

.

.

.

  
  


Step by step, breath by breath, Kieran could only hope that his footfalls would keep steady against each rooftop he crossed, each of the eaves he propelled himself over with such haste. 

  
  


Even with Lauren in his wake, sword in wait, he could find little consolation as he heard familiar voices, harsh and frantic, echoing from the streets. The surge of adrenaline that fell upon him was familiar in so many ways, taking on a consistency which Kieran could practically touch.

  
  


They had left Ned Colden’s residence to a song of sirens, and begun their habitual sprint across the city skyline. Bullets peppered the grounds they ran across, missing their ankles by a meager foot or two. The two of them were street rats in the night, melting into the safety of the darkness, back to their preferred solace and the comfortable rapture of the gutters.

  
  


To be hunted like such a rat, at the hands of a pack of baying dogs, became more probable as the chase lengthened. Along with the prospect of being the victim of some form of recognition, the idea served only to send Kieran forward with more conviction.

  
  


The shouts of indignance from the officers below turned into frustration as Lune became lost to the night- as the pair had, time and time again.

  
  


Sliding from their high point and landing in a vacant alley, the two of them stopped to catch their breath. Lauren adjusted her hat, shifting the sword on her hip. “You’ve gotten faster, Officer.”

  
  


“Have I? Running laps over the rooftops must work  _ wonders  _ for my stamina.”

  
  


“No better exercise than building your criminal reputation.”

  
  


_ “Criminal?  _ I much prefer the term  _ ‘vigilante’-” _

  
  


Lauren cupped a hand over his mouth, pulling him from the alley’s lip. Kieran resisted the urge to thrash against her touch. Tentative as it was, he trusted that the urgency was for a reason. So, being tugged back like a child was tolerated in such circumstances.

  
  


Harvey Wood, clad in mask and uniform, wandered aimlessly on the street adjacent. HIs steps were indecisive, frustrated- he must’ve gotten lost. It wasn’t the first time that his sense of direction had failed him.

  
  


As he passed, Kieran held his breath. He heard his coworker mumble to himself.  _ “How did I lose them all again?” _

  
  


As the hapless officer faded from view, Lauren let Kieran go, and they exhaled collectively. Kieran flexed his jaw, which had been clenched. “-and hiding from coworkers that would loathe me if I were caught? I live for it.”

  
  


He tried not to think of such a possibility, and so the idea often evaded him, as he seemed to evade it.

.

.

.

  
  


With aching heels and burning lungs, Harvey trailed behind March, following in his shadow up the stairs to the Ardhalis Police Department. He wasn’t one to sulk, but it would be amiss to say he wasn’t feeling discouraged by the night’s events. 

  
  


Once Ned Colden had been successfully transferred to the darker corner of the building, through the door that no one entered willingly- though, he’d watched as person after person had trudged through there, like tainted lambs to an unforgiving slaughter. He tugged his mask from where it sat on his face, peeling it off with a huff.

  
  


“Thank you again for working overtime to help with the arrests.” March patted him on the back, letting his hand rest on his shoulder. “The rest of the squad’s heading back onto patrol, but you’re free to leave.”

  
  


“Sure, anytime! It’s a shame we couldn’t catch Lune though. We were so close!”

  
  


“Better luck next time, I suppose.”

  
  


“At least the other witnesses’ views held, it did seem like two men.”

  
  


“I highly doubt this is the last time we’ll hear from them, so all the more information we can gather!” March retreated from his spot on the steps, surprised to see Harvey nearing the office. “Get some sleep soon, will you?”

  
  


“I sure hope so! I’ll see you tomorrow, Detective March!”

  
  


He placed a gloved hand on the frostbitten door handle, swinging it open with an ease.

  
  


The Precinct at night was a lullaby to his eyes and ears; the lazy graze of a flashlight’s glare passed over the wall in clockwork movements, and the mechanical lull of a stray typewriter by a secretary working a redeye. As the flashes became less frequent, and the noises began to slow and then cease, Harvey found himself feeling even more awake than before.

  
  


The papers might as well have been scribed in runes, or perhaps the night had begun to taint his head like ink. He scanned the paragraphs, once, twice, to no avail. Finally, he came to the conclusion that the problem simply was, if anything other than himself, that he didn’t have the right information to draft. 

  
  


_ “To the archives, then.”  _ His quiet grievance was heard by no one; Harvey had heard the doors close twice, decisively. He was alone.

  
  


So, he traveled the halls with a more confident ease, passed each window with a taller posture, like some boy-prince. A fissure grew within it as he fiddled with the lock on the archive doors, the golden brass loose from use. With the absence of metal creaks came another sound, seemingly from the wood of the floors. He turned his head, surveying the hall. Perhaps it was just his imagination; the department always had been creepy at night. There wasn’t much work left that had to be done, so he would complete it with a fervor often absent from his mind during the daylight hours.

  
  


He let the door swing open behind him, the thin strip of light acting as a beacon to the shoddy desk tucked within the rows of shelves. The lamp, the old model that it was, took a few prods to shudder to life, the light feeble but sufficient. Tapping an erratic melody on the desk with his hands, Harvey finally summoned the will to get what he had come for. He ran a finger over the old files and volumes on the nearest shelf, landing on an old black book with a creased binding. Surely enough, the pages he flipped through were filled with the dates and names he needed to record.

  
  


Dropping it carelessly on the desk, Harvey let himself melt into the chair. It creaked under his weight, but he felt no strain on the wooden limbs. Could have been the floor, he supposed.

  
  


There would never come a day where Harvey wouldn’t loathe the Archives at night.

.

.

.

  
  


“Colden had mentioned ‘The Lonely Traveler’s’. Any idea where that is?”

  
  


“It’s an inn in Greychapel. Naturally, our visit won’t be pleasant.” The kiss of ice in Lauren’s voice was an intangible reminder of the area’s reputation. Greychapel was a district one was favored to avoid, the apex spot of so many horror stories on the Police Department’s behalf. “It’s not far from the Grim Goblin- a tavern, also one of the Scythe’s most favored rendezvous spots.”

  
  


“So you’re thinking that he has a meeting with some other member of the operation there?”

  
  


“Right. Maybe even the Apostle’s Messenger, if we’re lucky.”

  
  


Kieran nodded. “We could follow Flemmings there once he gets back into town.”

  
  


_ “We?”  _ Lauren cocked her hip, balancing on the frame of their convoluted board. “If I were to send you into the tavern, you’d be done for.  _ I’ll _ follow him.”

  
  


“And what have I done to give you such an impression?”

  
  


“It’s not  _ you,  _ per sé.” She crossed her arms. “If you’re not wicked from the moment you set your foot in the door, they’ll know. And they’ll tear you to pieces.”

  
  


Kieran put a hand to his heart. Despite his lighthearted intentions, his question came out strained. His throat caught each syllable in a hoarse query. “So you think me to be  _ pure?” _

  
  


“No.” She said it with a pallid expression, betraying no hesitation. She delivered her assessment, point blank. “I don’t.”

  
  


What made his heart drop, what caused his face to go bone-white, was how Lauren had taken a moment to consider it, genuinely. While her eyes drifted from Kieran to elsewhere, lips parted in thought, she had still come to the same conclusion.

  
  


At least they were in agreement on something.

  
  


“Hmm.” He skimmed the documents. “So will I be on recon?”

  
  


“If you’re up for it.” Leaning over his shoulder, she marked one of her notes with an asterisk. With her open hand, she pressed a finger onto one of the motions denoted on a map to the side.

  
  


“Absolutely…” He skimmed her writings, squinting at the words. He furrowed his brow as he surveyed them again, confirming his suspicions. “Absurd. Isn’t this even more dangerous than what we’d planned?”

  
  


“Maybe. But it’s more efficient this way- faster, too.” She shrugged. “And you’re putting yourself to ‘legitimate use’, like you’ve been wanting. Heaven forbid you breathe easy for a moment.”

  
  


Kieran pressed the parchment back into her hands. “I’ll breathe easy once this is finished, won’t I?”

  
  


Lauren nodded, shuffling through some papers of her own. The chilling consequences of being constantly under her gaze never quite left Kieran, it seemed. As he leafed through his pages from his chair, she surveyed him with vigilance, her eyes lingering on him in a manner almost territorial. The surveillance from behind was well-deserved after his intrusions.

  
  


“Rosenthal.”

  
  


Lauren closed her ledger. She was silent, lending to her rapt attention. The lamplight fell in harsh rivulets against her face, eyes wide in query.

  
  


As he had anticipated, perhaps even hoped, the single genuine word had reeled his keen observer in on a golden string.

  
  


“I went too far the other night.” He swallowed. “I remember our pact, and its implications. I lost sight of that, I think. It won’t happen again.”

  
  


Kieran meant it. 

  
  


His confession was met with shock, tented confusion against the moonlight. Lauren’s expression melted a bit, an easy smile crossing her face. “Maybe you do have some humility, Officer.”

  
  


He truly hoped so.

  
  


.

.

.

  
  


The bite of winter seemed to bleed, feral, into the archive room. Harvey had grossly underestimated the myriad of work that had piled up for him, each word lending itself to another minute’s passing. He supposed that freezing amongst the musty shelves was his punishment for a more leisurely week.

  
  


Harvey drifted in and out of awareness, the pen in his hand becoming numb, the papers melting into the desk with each passing minute. A whisper of a sound shot into the air, the night too far along and his mind too bogged with fog and archive dust to make much of it at all.

  
  


He called carelessly into the void.  _ “Hello? Anyone?” _

  
  


He didn’t expect a reply, and so he didn’t receive one in return. The letters in the pages had begun to shift under his weary gaze. The final dash of ink on his paper was a solace of its own.

  
  


Harvey closed his ledger unceremoniously, happy to be done with it. An exhausted yet exuberant sigh of relief was interrupted by another sound, different than the others.

  
  


Though he hadn’t been on duty for long, and his experience ran thin, Harvey could’ve sworn it was the familiar cry of metal upon metal. And it came from behind.

  
  


That was the last spark of his impending notion. Harvey jumped from his chair, grabbed his papers, made for the door.

  
  


He might have been naïve, or so they said. But he was trained. He was fast.

  
  


Not fast enough.

  
  


The metal bit into him, in a fast crescent. Inevitable.

  
  


When his hands, now empty, fluttered up to his neck, they became slick in an instant, horrifyingly warm. Harvey didn’t note the pain in that moment, only the cold, and the musical droplets of his blood falling onto his dropped papers below.

  
  


But from the moment the metal kissed his skin, he knew. Harvey was well aware that such an ail couldn’t be helped, no quantity of sutures or amount of struggling would compensate for the Hell that he was about to endure.

  
  


_ He wasn’t so stupid as to deny what he knew. _

  
  


Slowly, he turned to face the only light from the room falling upon him, and the blood on his hands. Through bleary vision, he made out a figure, perched languidly against the shelves, twirling metal in its grasp.

  
  


_ “You- you’re the-” _

  
  


Thus, torrential and predicted like such, it hit him like a storm.

  
  


Coughing, crimson, everything burned. Harvey couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see. There was only pain, tears of red, and turbulent silence as he clawed against himself, revolted against his own body in desperation.

  
  


He was gone. 

  
  


The wraith approached his hapless body, nudging him over with the toe of a boot. He was arranged and left to wither.

  
  


All things considered, the show was rather satisfying.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> murder... but like make it poetic(?) and stuff  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Needless to say, it was quite fun to write...
> 
> We're coming up on a lot of exciting things, as you all know! Very very excited to tackle it all. It's gonna be a ride I'm ready to take. Though, along with many of you, it's just about time for me to tackle some work I've been *procrastinating* on. 'm all planned out, and I'm feeling great about the upcoming chapters. ~~BUT I'm also a pretty slow writer~~
> 
> Maybe it'll balance out! We'll see. But I'll be here, working my way through this! Thank you all for sticking with me, it brings me such joy to know people are enjoying what I've written. Love you all <3
> 
> ~and if you're in a roleswap-y mood, then I would recommend checking out [Time Runs Short](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25943527/chapters/63061867)\- Kywi as Assassin/Officer duo? Yes please. Honestly read anything, ANYTHING by [intheKnickoftime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intheKnickoftime/pseuds/intheKnickoftime), I love her works SO much. They're all gems, each and every one of them.
> 
> <3


	15. Rigor Mortis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, Kieran felt responsible for it. He would scrape himself raw to find out how, if he could - he could deduce as much. 
> 
> If at all divisive, he was still smart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: decay)_

Kieran blinked the sleep out of his eyes, the weight of his thoughts still thick in his lungs and heavy on his lashes like the morning dew. The emptiness of both the office and the mug in his fingers were barely consolations, although appreciated. It took all of his control not to turn back to the pot beside him, to make himself another cup. The sun had barely begun through the windows, and his hands were already fighting the inclination to shake. He had grown accustomed to running on fumes. Caffeine was his drug of choice.

  
  


With no desire to move from his spot, Kieran situated himself somewhat comfortably, cocking his hip against the table and bracing his hand against the wall. His attention was only perked by the crass disruption of metal scuffing against wood and a yelp.

  
  


He looked up to see that his blissful isolation had been interrupted, and his seclusion had been entirely imagined. 

  
  


Bangs still plastered to her forehead from sleep, Kym had bent in her chair to peer up at Will, the neck of a lamp in her grasp. The two of them had been silent until that point, having lurked just outside the edges of Kieran’s consciousness. 

  
  


Will’s eyes followed the provisional weapon, betraying no reaction. “What are you even doing here? It’s five.”

  
  


Kym replaced the lamp where it stood, clearing her throat as she flipped the switch, the bulb flickering to life. “Finishing up some paperwork. And I could stay the same for you.”

  
  


“Had a family dinner last night, and couldn’t sleep.” The bags under his eyes assured the truth of his words. His gaze lingered on Kym’s desk. “Paperwork, huh…”

  
  


“Yep. It’s not that crazy, you can close your mouth now, _Williame.”_

  
  


He took a sip of his coffee, eyes wide. “Sure. I sometimes forget that there was a reason for your promotion.”

  
  


“Excuse me! I am quite diligent!”

  
  


“Don’t even start on diligence. It’s still five in the morning.”

  
  


“Five in the morning is a _perfectly-”_

  
  


As he passed, Kieran collapsed onto Kym’s desk, his hands falling over her papers and gripping the surface as he reclined. She careened back in her chair, nearly pulling Will to the ground with her as she yelled. By the time they reconfigured themselves, Kieran had anchored his chin in his hands, flashed them an indolent stare. “Yes, five in the morning. It’s far too early for you to be _assaulting my senses.”_

  
  


Kym shuffled in her chair, flicked him on the forehead. “Kieran, you too? Did you both conspire to give me palpitations?”

  
  


“That was the intention.”

  
  


She pressed her elbows into the wood, sliding down until she hunched to Kieran’s level. She furrowed her brow at him, pouting. “And to think I’d find some _peace.”_

  
  


Kieran scoffed. “Ladell, you’re the reason that the office is so chaotic in the daylight hours. You reap what you sow.”

  
  


Kym bit her lip, her eyes dancing back and forth between Kieran and her work. “And _you-_ why do you look dead?”

  
  


“It’s chronic at this point. Don’t act so surprised.”

  
  


“Kieran White, what happened? You were so pretty!”

  
  


Will snorted.

  
  


“Was I?”

  
  


“You were! _Man of marble, jawline of glass!_ **Now I have no reason to talk to you!”**

  
  


Kieran was well aware of the darkness ringing his eyes, his newfound, deathlike pallor. Though the features were only so prominent up close, Kym’s position served only to emphasize them. They were well-deserved consequences of his latest hobbies.

  
  


“I’ve festered. But now I need to work on paperwork, too.” His midnight dates were becoming more time-consuming.

  
  


“You both are- _oh my god.”_ Will’s voice trailed off, running thin before cracking like his mug had done, apparently. His jaw locked as he looked to his right. Kieran and Kym followed his gaze. 

  
  


The Lieutenant's mug lay cracked on the desk adjacent, coffee seeping from the ceramic as though from an open wound. The hazel liquid began to lick into some spare papers, enveloping and tainting the piles slowly, taunting the three officers as it spread before them.

  
  


It would have quite possibly been redeemable, if the desk had not belonged to Lukas “Grumpy Cat” Randall, who guarded his possessions in a way more akin to a lion than his nickname would suggest.

  
  


Kym pressed her hands to her mouth. “We’re screwed.”

  
  


Kieran swung his arms over his friends’ shoulders, stooped and asymmetric from the height difference. Underneath an easy smile, he gritted his teeth. “Well. _Crumbs.”_

  
  


Shrugging him off, Will pivoted on his heel. “Ladell, you’d better get a rag- _now.”_

  
  


“Hey! This is on you too!”

  
  


“Not me- I’m transferring.”

  
  


“You both! You both did this!” She grabbed Kieran’s wrist, nearly yanking his shoulder from its socket.

  
  


Kieran stumbled after her, a vacant expression on his face. “I hate you-”

  
  


He tripped over some of the mug shards on the carpet in his attempts to avoid Will. “I detest him-”

  
  


He cringed as his knee fell hard into the corner of his own desk as they passed. “- and I _despise_ it here.”

.

.

.

  
  


Kym marched down the hallway, eyes trained on the closet. She glanced behind her, sizing up Will and Kieran, who both lingered a few paces back. She huffed, blowing the hair out of her face. “Don’t pretend you all don’t want coffee, also.”

  
  


“Not pretending. We’re right here…” Kieran’s voice trailed off as he scanned the hall. The walls and floor were immaculate, cleaned as always. 

  
  


It was though he walked into a wall, albeit subtle, as they proceeded.

  
  


He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat as some acrid smell rose in the air. It wasn’t altogether new, something he remembered from restless days and nights of times past. 

  
  


_Blood._

  
  


Kieran forced his jaw open, tried to choke out a warning, but his throat closed around his words, strangling them in his chest. 

  
  


Kym placed a hand on the door to the supply closet, crooked it open. “Then, boys, don’t act so _high and mighty-”_

  
  


Her voice cut off, like the warble of a bird in the midst of a storm. The door flew from Kym’s grasp, falling sharply against the wall as she screamed, keeling back into Will. As he came to the same sickening realization as her, his face went white as bone. He threw his arms around Kym, collapsing into her as she did to him, as if to prevent both of them from falling down into something indefinable. 

  
  


Kieran charged past them, swinging the door all the way back on its hinges to absorb the horror at his own hand.

  
  


Harvey was dead. Undeniably so.

  
  


Sprawled across the closet floor, half drenched in blood and half in darkness. Stains spiraled over and around him, woven in streams and rills like a spider’s cruel web.

  
  


Kieran wished that the detective in him didn’t rear his head, didn’t keep his eyes trained and feet planted where he stood, noting things he didn’t want to note.

  
  


How Harvey’s fingernails were caked with crimson too, as though he’d struggled and thrashed like a fish on a line. Revolt. Or regret.

  
  


How his edges had paled and purpled with time. Asphyxiation.

  
  


How the trails of blood flowed from planes other than the gaping slit on his neck. Foul play.

  
  


Even so, Kieran fell back, let the door fall shut again in front of him, breaking from that trance before he could put any notion into words.

  
  


A new page had been added to the narrative. One that he had hoped would stay in the darkness of his mind, would never see the light of day.

  
  


More pieces were at play in their little game.

.

.

.

  
  


Later, even after the blood had run dry and the halls had been webbed with tape, the whole situation still felt unreal. 

  
  


It was safe to say that Kieran was no longer tired.

  
  


He stood idle, perhaps still a bit shellshocked, his coworkers surrounding him like a flock of abnormally silent birds.

  
  


“We didn’t find any other offensive wounds, besides the cut on his neck.” Grace Riverhood ducked out of the closet, pulling the hems of her gloves from her wrists. “Considering the rotting skin around the cut, the blade must’ve been coated with some powerful poison.”

  
  


Andrew Lawes emerged behind her. When there were more than two from Forensics at a scene, then lips were sealed and blinds were drawn; a general rule of thumb in the Precinct that was proven valid by the quiet footsteps of others and the careful locking of the surrounding doors.

  
  


Andrew closed the door, careful not to disturb the contents within. “The autopsy should confirm it. But I’m ready to bet that we’re looking at the effects of Golden Viper venom- the burning tissues, the hemorrhaging. His blood pressure probably increased exponentially. Could’ve suffocated until either his cranial arteries or heart burst. Probably was the aneurysms that did it.”

It wasn’t anything near farfetched. The wound was calculated, precise. Conducted by a blade poised to kill.

  
  


March nodded to the investigators. “Golden Viper’s rare, but I’ve heard horror stories about it from the other Precincts. It’s nothing new. A Phantom Scythe Assassin, no doubt.”

  
  


Kym, for the first time, spoke up. “Why would anyone want to do this to Harvey?”

  
  


“None of the guards working last night, or the secretary, said that they heard anything.” Grace retrieved a notepad from her pocket, skimming her shorthand. “They just assumed Harvey went home.”

  
  


Hermann nodded, betraying no emotion. “It’s unlikely that an assassin would go to such… expensive measures to get rid of him. He wasn’t the type to make enemies, very agreeable. But the methods are far too clean for a hobbyist, and too well-funded for an individual...”

  
  


As the discussion continued, the hesitant rumpling of fabric peaked Kieran’s attention. His eyes fell onto Kym, who had once again slipped back into her own lull. She was swaying, slightly, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet with an empty expression. Her fingers dug into her arms as she locked herself into a perpetual, shaking embrace.

  
  


“Kym?” He nodded towards her. “Are you alright?”

  
  


He got no response. He held a hand out to her. “Maybe you should sit-”

  
  


Kym brushed his hand away, shying away from the group. **“I- I have to finish my paperwork.”**

  
  


As she paced down the hall, shoulders tense, Kieran made to follow behind. “Kym-”

  
  


Will’s hand fell onto his shoulder, holding him back. “I’ve got her.”

  
  


The pair disappeared down the corridor, a chorus of doors flying closed on their hinges and hurried footsteps against the wood and tile marking their absence. 

  
  


“Officer White.” Hermann approached Kieran, calling to him from behind. “I need you to head to the Interrogation Room and give March your report on what happened this morning.”

  
  


Despite his better judgement, he scowled. “Can’t it wait? My friend- she’s-”

  
  


“The Lieutenant went after Ladell. She’ll be fine. Focus on the issue at hand.”

  
  


Kieran bit his tongue, swallowed back his nerve. “Of course, Captain. My apologies.”

  
  


Following March down stairs and far away from the blood and sterile white, Kieran felt his heart sink. 

  
  


His mind still raced with possibilities, suspicion. 

  
  


_It couldn’t be her. No hyacinth, no words._

  
  


With this constant ebb of loss that he bore witness too, his emotions had run near dry. He would wield his mind as a weapon, lock the torrential flood of all else out. He had to. It didn’t change the fact that Harvey was innocent, uninvolved. 

  
  


Somehow, Kieran felt responsible for it. He would scrape himself raw to find out how, if he could - he could deduce as much. 

  
  


If at all divisive, he was still smart.

  
  


_Am I moving forwards or falling back?_

.

.

.

_“Kym! Wait up-”_ Will’s boots tore over cobblestone as he pursued the Sergeant, rounding turns and attempting to stay in her wake. She moved quickly, fleeing like a fox through the snow, but her movements were panicked and hasty. It hurt him to see her brake at wrong turns, clench her fists as she craned her head over cars and around streetlamps.

  
  


He shook his head, willing his mind to tear from his memories with abandon. They only served to make him feel worse.

  
  


_No! Surely, he’s just sleeping! Can’t you see he’s trying to charm you with how_ drop-dead gorgeous _he is?_

  
  


She didn’t regard his voice, or his calls. It seemed that Kym couldn’t hear him. 

  
  


Grinding his teeth, Will followed her down a narrow alley. As he fell deeper into the brick and mortar maze, the haunting sound of major chords began to puncture the hazy silence. A melody filled the air, and the strain filled his mind as he searched. 

  
  


The innocence of it was poignant. He could practically see the daisies, hear the bubbles of laughter and taste the summer rain.

  
  


Will found Kym at the source.

  
  


Her hand extended out towards the glass windowpane of a shop, fingertips hovering tentatively over the surface. Despite her hesitance, Kym’s body seemed to melt further into the display with each passing moment. It pulled her closer like a moth mesmerized by tendrils of light from a lamp.

Her eyes fluttered shut, as if she was caught in the throngs of some inescapably hapless daydream. Both a paradise and limbo for one.

  
  


Will almost felt guilty for breaking her trance.

  
  


He shook himself, relieving the chill that had begun to collect in his bones. The music stopped as he approached, and Kym’s eyes fluttered open as his footsteps became audible. 

  
  


“There you are.”

  
  


Kym tensed as his reflection formed in the glass, and she revolved slowly to face him, hands scrambling for her pockets and her shoulders held taut. “Oh. You’re here.”

  
  


“I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  
  


A grin formed on her face. It was tired, forced tightly into place like she was on strings. “Well. I thought you hated me, Lieutenant.”

  
  


“I _do-”_ He grimaced, recanted his words. “Just doing my job. I take care of my subordinates.”

  
  


She chuckled. “Don’t worry too much. It just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

  
  


“You don’t normally react like that, though. Usually, we leave the crime scenes with your sanity in limbo.”

  
  


“I’m glad my jokes disturb you. Mission accomplished.”

  
  


“But today, you reacted… like a normal person?” He shrugged. “And - I thought that was even more scary.”

  
  


“Don’t ever stop questioning my sanity! I _enjoy_ seeing you fret over it.” She nudged him with her elbow. Her expression melted into something more real before falling into a solemn line. “It’s just… when I was younger, I used to see cops like superheroes, you know? But they’re not indestructible. They die too, they’re human. Their clocks have to stop sometime, just like everyone else.”

  
  


She dug her fingers deeper into her vest. “And when I see the same look in other people’s eyes, I wonder if they realize it. That heroes die too.”

  
  


They lingered, the frost-laden air thick with words left unspoken.

  
  


_But what else was there to say?_

  
  


Will peered into the display, tentatively craning over Kym. “You seem fond of that music box, aren’t y-”

  
  


He jumped as Kym clapped his shoulder, beginning to make her way back out of the alley. “We should probably head back to the office! March is gonna want our depositions, and I’d 

rather not make Hermann mad on top of it all.”

  
  


Just as the skies opened, giving way to snow, a familiar figure rounded the corner into their neck of the alley. Kieran waved to them, holding their winter coats out in offerrence.

  
  


As they made their way to him, Will noticed the heaviness that remained on Kym’s shoulders, how she kept her steps light in spite of it all.

  
  


He’d keep taking note of these things.

  
  


After all, it was his job.

.

.

.

  
  


As the sun set and winds picked up, tossing the snow in furls through the city, another figure paced the street.

  
  


Kieran’s steps were frantic, indecisive, staggered like those of a child upon the city cobblestone. Lauren did not turn to face him, the furs within her coat and boots flickering like 

blue embers in the dusk. His own layers were constricting upon his shoulders, the cotton digging into his skin, propelling him forward. 

  
  


The leather and soles of his shoes revolted against the sleet beneath him as he stopped, not quite slipping but nearly losing balance on the thin sheen of ice. He stretched his palms out to catch himself on the bridge. His face felt far too warm against the biting air, his breathing too shallow.

  
  


Any attempt at composure, the plans he had orchestrated and rehearsed over the afternoon, fell into apparent misuse as Lauren came to notice the panic that laced his movements, and then his voice. 

  
  


_“Did you know about this?”_

  
  


“What?” Lauren’s eyes flicked over his hunched frame. “Am I supposed to know something?”

  
  


“Don’t-” He gasped for air, lost to his mind and the frost. “Don’t speak _around_ me. Don’t do it- not tonight.”

  
  


“Kieran. Tell me.”

  
  


“Officer Harvey Wood. Found dead at the Precinct this morning. _By me.”_

  
  


“Oh.”

  
  


“Did you know?”

  
  


“I didn’t.”

  
  


And he melted, a bit. His frame of stone fell, and his knuckles whitened within his gloves. His voice was ragged, its timbre sacrificed in favor of the tension strung over his frame. “Okay.”

  
  


Kieran wanted to believe her. It was a relief that he found he could, that her words weren’t tainted with hideous _red._

  
  


Lauren leaned into the brick, eyes averted from Kieran. She peered into the harbor on the bridge’s other side, the steady flow of water turned lethargic by the cold. “So what happened?”

  
  


“Still in the dark, for the most part. Forensics found traces of Golden Viper Venom on the cadaver.”

  
  


Harvey, deprived of his being, condemned to be nothing more than a nameless corpse.

  
  


“That’s unusual. And expensive.”

  
  


“Yeah, no kidding.” He pulled himself up from his forearms, rotating to look out at the water with her. “I’m glad you didn’t know about this. Clears the air a bit.”

  
  


Lauren took a breath. “And if I did know? Or if I was the one to kill him? What would you have done?”

  
  


As much as the truth disgusted him, Kieran could be honest in turn.

  
  


“Well.” His laugh was dry, strained. “I’d kill you.”

  
  


“Good to see you haven’t changed.” The sound of her chuckle was quickly lost in the air, overridden by the blanch of her skin and set of her jaw..

  
  


“Maybe not.”

  
  


They stood silent for a moment.

  
  


Lauren broke it, put her own fissures in it like glass. “I could find them, the one that killed Harvey. If you wanted.”

  
  


“And how would you go about doing that?”

  
  


“I have my suspicions. I’m capable of it, just give me the word.”

  
  


Though no word was given - the smile that spread across Kieran’s face, warm even in the winter, it affirmed those left unsaid.

And it all felt a bit less cold.

  
  


Lauren shifted the strings of the bag on her shoulder. “Flemmings is supposed to come back to town in two days. We need to start our preparations sooner rather than later, if we want all to go well.”

  
  


“That’s quite the time constraint. Can we build a file by then?”

  
  


“Probably not. But we shouldn’t neutralize him quite yet, I don’t think. We should try and get something more out of him first - that could be useful.”

  
  


“Noted. So what’s in the bag?”

  
  


“It’s for you!” Her tone was airy as she reached into its paper depths. “I borrowed a uniform a couple of hours ago, added in a couple of provisions. Should be suitable.”

  
  


“So for recon, I’m playing dress-up. Splendid.” He quirked a brow. “Hope it’s not anything _too_ indecent.”

  
  


“Please.” She fished around for a moment longer, and her eyes lit up as her fingers grasped something. “Have your look.”

  
  


Lauren held out something in the palm of her hand, a glint of glass and metal. Kieran recoiled at it.

Of course she would know how exactly to render him vexed, stupid as the reasoning was. _Of course_ she would take the opportunity, seize it like a dangling string, and pull it tight around him in a vice. She must’ve taken such pleasure in it.

  
  


“Rosenthal. I loathe you.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKW, this entire chapter: I hate it here ✨
> 
> It wasn't intentional at first, but am I complaining? I am not.
> 
> And, of course, I do love myself some nuanced parallels. But who doesn't?
> 
> I believe, and very tentatively say, that this was the last somewhat expository chapter! Things are about to go down. But you all know that already ;)
> 
> I'd expect these next few will come faster- I've been champing at the bit for some of them for months. Dive in with me, will you?
> 
> <3


	16. Sempar Paratus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lauren often thought of him.
> 
> It had been some time. But when the snowfall came and her breath would turn to mist and smoke, she thought of him the most, truly.
> 
> But maybe, in some sense, she was lying to herself all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: Always Ready)_
> 
> Hi friends! It's been a while! But this is a long one :)
> 
> I'd like to add for this chapter:  
>  **Content Warning: Illicit Activity and Abuse relating to Drugs and Alcohol**
> 
> I'd never include anything that I deem out of the rating I've selected from this fic (Teen and Up). But such topics can be sensitive and I want to handle this with care.

Kieran had come to know Lauren as soundless. 

  
  


Her steps had always been quiet ones, unyieldingly so. As she weaved her way through tall grasses, dry and brittle, it seemed that the surrounding field held its breath. Any of the faint noise Kieran found himself to be making was drowned out by the steady thrum of awakening crickets and cicadas underneath the soles of his boots.

  
  


Lauren’s silence of foot was accompanied by silence of mouth, her head bowed in reflection. Not daring to look up from the stones and brambles he stepped upon, Kieran slid a finger under the hem of his glove, snapping the leather back against his wrist. His partner’s eyes flicked over to him at the sound. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  
  


Lauren paused for a moment and considered her words. “I’m preparing myself. You should do the same.”

  
  


“I’m prepared. Our scheme is practically branded into my mind.” He clasped his hands together. “Don’t worry about me, _darling._ I know it down to a T.”

  
  


“By now, if you didn’t-” She scoffed. “The key here, is for you to be _nothing.”_

  
  


“Hey. You trust me, don’t you?” He already knew the answer in full. 

  
  


“Trust is a strong word. By now, you should have a good enough idea of if I trust-”

  
  


“Now, come on. I thought that-” Kieran threw a hand out to gesture to her. A bubble of laughter escaped him, and he collected himself. “-that we were building some kind of _rapport.”_

  
  


Lauren twisted her neck to look at him, and strung her lips up into a tight smile. “That entirely depends on your ability not to screw us over, Officer.”

  
  


Ignoring her threat and shaking the pressure from his back, he moved his gaze up to the sky. “It’s not late enough to rely on the dark to hide ourselves.”

  
  


She picked up on the statement, continued the thought, and Kieran came to think that maybe she was a bit uneasy too. “We’re better off operating under the cover of night, I know. But this way… it makes more sense.”

  
  


They were, and it did. They would have to work hard, and fast - dusk had already begun to fall upon them, veiling the sky in umber tones as they continued through the brush, tracing their steps parallel to long-rusted train tracks.

  
  


No money had been sent towards tending to the damage on the Greychapel line. Perhaps the monarchs had hoped to gentrify the community, as the line’s development had been publicized, even promoted. In both the past and present, people knew to take care and avoid such streets. Had the train line become operable, even then they wouldn’t have been so easily swayed.

  
  


Kieran was somewhat familiar with the area, in ink and in the flesh - on the odd day, he’d be stationed there in his blue. Before filling in for those precincts he had been told, rather harshly, to keep his eyes trained on the field and his hand on his gun in chronic motions. It had easily been a year since he had last set foot anywhere close to the tangle of ramshackle roads and sinuous streets. But he didn’t quickly forget.

  
  


Thieves, enveloped in the cover of decrepit brick and stone, with crooked blades drawn. Prostitutes, swathed in old silks and cigarette smoke spun into ribbons, tendrils that would vanish into the smog with every stray breath. The most unfortunate people would pace alleys like restless dogs, the permanent haze of fog rendering their eyes as devoid of light as the streetlamps, which were sparse and ineffective more often than not.

  
  


In the wake of tragedy and disaster, the citadel had elected not to compensate towards what was not worth fixing.

  
  


Separated by the metal skeleton, Kieran and Lauren lifted their feet high to escape the withered brush. Their affinity for wearing the darkness took different forms that night.

  
  


Underneath a fur cowl, a black dress draped over Lauren’s frame, the fabric falling to her ankles and kissing the tops of her heels. She handled the rocky terrain with grace, a gloved finger pressed to the wide brim of her hat, black embroidered with violet that ran into the red of her hair, let loosely down over her shoulders. With the silk she wore steel, and the edge of a blade peeked out from under the fabric. She was at home in the finery, undoubtedly still herself.

  
  


Kieran adjusted the metal frames on his face. In spite of how he’d fastened his hair higher than he was used to, tangles of it still snagged in the earpieces, feeding his discontent. “Do tell me why you chose _glasses?_ They’ll be cracked down the center by the end of the night.”

  
  


“Be grateful that you don’t have to be in full disguise,” Lauren said, pulling her dress higher over her ankles. The hem fell just above the brambles, dutifully avoiding the filth. “We’re further from your home Precinct now, isn’t that lucky?”

“I wouldn’t call this anywhere near lucky.”

  
  


She scoffed in the wake of his words. “I don’t understand how you can willingly follow me into this hellhole, and yet the one thing you whine about is your _costume.”_

.

He steadied the camera strapped onto his belt. “One of my little _idiosyncrasies,_ I suppose.”

  
  


“Well, bridle it.” The illuminated figure of the inn materialized through the darkening copse.

  
  


With heavy-handed reluctance, Kieran pulled his tie into an easy knot, pressing the fabric flat against his chest, falling sober. “The front doors opened forty-five minutes ago, give or take. You should be clear.”

  
  


“And Flemmings should be here in twenty.”

  
  


“Can I ask why he’s not staying at the Inn?”

  
  


Lauren smirked. “Because I took the last room. So he might be angry.”

  
  


_“Why-”_ Kieran drew a breath. “Can I ask _why?”_

  
  


“You’ll have less to search through, and you won’t be spending time in close proximity to others.”

  
  


He let out a noise of agreement. “Fair enough. So… we’ll meet in the room, then?”

  
  


“We can catch each other up there before we take our leave.”

  
  


“Sick of your reeking cave?”

  
  


Lauren opened her mouth to protest, then set her jaw. “We could always traipse back through the woods the way we came. Would you rather-”

  
  


He wouldn’t. “Touché.”

The Lone Traveler’s Inn fell somewhere on the spectrum between seedy and sophisticated. It almost looked tired, the sloping eaves of the roof sitting heavily against the wooden foundation, casting a shadow over the building’s perimeter. Through the sparsely placed windows, people could be seen mulling around; their silhouettes were muted through the panes, yet as constant as the hum of the insects outside. A man slouched at a desk inside, wearing an outfit identical to Kieran’s: a charcoal-grey button up with darker slacks, black suspenders and a tie. 

  
  


He crossed his arms. “Well. I’ve been delivered, safe and sound. Honestly, have some faith.”

  
  


She looked back over her shoulder at him, one finger pressed against the wall. “Don’t die.”

  
  


Possibly, Lauren didn’t trust him not to follow her. Kieran didn’t hold much for her, in that regard.

  
  


“You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

.

.

.

  
  


Kieran nudged the limp hand further underneath the desk.

  
  


He sat behind it, his legs propped on the surface to avoid his unconscious victim below. Aside from delivering a swift crack to the head of its previous occupant, there had been next to no work for him to do. All in his favor.

  
  


He lost himself in the unimportant intricacies of the room around him. His own meaningless variation of recon.

  
  


A jar had been set on the corner of the wood, and a cluster of purple thistles rested against its glass brim. The stems had been cut carelessly, each length asymmetric to the others. Only one was still long enough to drink what remained of the water. It selfishly stayed vivid in color while the others had begun to fester. The water had been tainted rust-red from time, its value to the blooms long since drained. Ripe as the timing was to dump the dying bouquet, Kieran opted to leave them be. 

  
  


His brief stupor was interrupted by a creak of rusted hinges, and he ducked behind the desk as footsteps grew closer. Taking the opportunity to pull one of the drawers open, Kieran began to sift through the mess of pens and keys. With the trickle of patrons coming to an end and the lowering of the sun in the sky, his timing seemed to work out perfectly.

  
  


Finding Flemmings’ key was easy. Finding his car proved to be scores harder.

  
  


After minutes of pacing the front lot, Kieran was able to match the engravings on the key’s brass teeth to one of the license plates. The car was an older model, the scuffs along the bumper and wear around the tires betraying its use. Judging by its condition and the generic brandings on the key, it was a rental. 

  
  


Underneath the condensation that collected on the window with his every breath, Kieran caught his warped reflection in the glass. He was shaking from the frigid air. It carried an uncharacteristic chill, one alien to the city’s normally mild winters. Perhaps it was merely his adrenaline spiking the weather.

  
  


God, it was so _cold._

_._

_._

_._

  
  


Nursing a sidecar, Lauren observed the tavern, a wraith in the corner. She twisted the stem of her glass between two fingers. Leaning forward over her table, she gazed warily into the ocean of others from under her velvet brim. 

  
  


The ones who recognized her did so with an unsteady quiet, but otherwise she remained undetected. Her attention was only piqued by the door opening. A woman clad in red and black pressed it closed, surveying the bar for her associate.

  
  


The new arrival moved with harsh steps, steady like a metronome; decisive but delicate, like walking on glass. Her hair was the color of satin and roses, flowing out behind her in tendrils. Her painted lips twisted as if to suggest that should she open her mouth to speak, every person in her midst would freeze, and all of the birds outside would stop their songs to listen.

  
  


But the bar crawlers who eyed her, the tavern itself, knew better than to tempt the temptress, to provoke the rose. Her face held a stoic fury, omniscient and sly; making it evident that she would take rapture in sinking her fangs into their sorry necks.

  
  


Even after time had passed and distances had been crossed, Lauren wouldn’t easily forget such a face. 

  
  


_Belladonna Davenport._

  
  


“Flemmings.” Bella joined him at the counter, raising her palm for a drink. “I do hope the weather was agreeable on your endeavor.”

  
  


He pressed his hat into the wood, his hair falling into his eyes, the former dark and the other seething. _“Don’t start._ All was in place with this operation when I boarded that boat, and now that I’m back, it’s all gone to the rats.”

  
  


She cocked her head. The ornate diamond structures cascading from Bella’s ears caught the lousy tavern lighting, breaking and bending the beams, making them beautiful. “You’re better informed than I thought. They call themselves _Lune.”_

  
  


“Do we have any trace on their identities?”

  
  


“Not yet.”

  
  


He scowled. _“Christ._ Anslow, Blakesly, and McTrevor are all behind bars, I’ve heard.”

  
  


“Colden too. Just a few days ago.” She took the liquor set in front of her into her grasp, her eyes dancing as the bartender left them. “All in the span of… what? Two months?”

  
  


_“Two months._ Time I spent busting my ass handling these foreign transactions, only for it all to go to Hell at the hand of these- these _idiots.”_

  
  


Bella swirled her glass. “Four nearly at once. That’s unheard of.”

  
  


_“Of course it’s unheard of!_ We’re exposed, practically. Do they believe it was the Leader’s intention?”

  
  


“Wholeheartedly.” She took a sip. “For now.”

  
  


He grimaced. “The Apostle’s going to be furious. If it’s discovered that he plans to take the reins on this…”

  
  


Lauren’s eyes widened.

  
  


Belladonna pushed a curl behind her ear. “He already _is_ furious. And I’m sure we’ll get an earful of it…” She lowered her voice. “Carmine Camelia, a few days from now. We’ll receive new directives from him then.”

  
  


_A change in direction._

  
  


Belladonna reached into her coat and retrieved a manila folder. She slid it across the counter, a manicured hand lingering the paper as Flemmings reached for it. “Gentle, now. You know what happens if these documents are damaged.”

  
  


“You forget my capabilities, _assassin._ I’m far more proficient than those other pawns.”

  
  


She lifted her palm from the counter lazily, swiping the wood before pleating back her coat. “We’ll find out soon enough. Won’t we, Flemmings?”

  
  


With a shake of his head, he tucked the file into his jacket, pushing his hat back over his hair. Leaving promptly, his steps communicated his wish to be followed by none.

  
  


Duty fulfilled, Lauren pulled her stole back over her shoulders, pushing her glass to the middle of the table. She slid out the back exit and soon found herself against the night air, weaving through the tangle of trees. A branch snapped behind her, and the deliberate sound of it gave her pursuer an identity.

  
  


A voice, venomous and saccharine, rang out from behind her, reverberating off of the trees. “You know it’s impolite to interrupt, _Miss Purple Hyacinth.”_

  
  


Lauren tipped the brim of her hat, letting her hands trail to her sides, where her sword rested.

  
  


“Bella, you can call me Lauren, you know.”

.

.

.

  
  


Surveying the grounds with the aptitude of a hawk, Kieran pulled the car into the furthermost corner of the lot. It wasn’t much of one at all, so as a clearing amidst the thicket that surrounded the inn.

  
  


Despite the wear - or lack thereof - of time, Kieran was not as horrid of a driver as he might have predicted. Like the didactic lectures he sat through in his youth and the more particular branches of arithmetic, his learnings had fallen to disuse, victims of circumstance. Maybe in another time, he would have utilized it more. 

  
  


He turned the key, and the engine fell silent. Kieran retrieved the camera from his belt. He suppressed a laugh, maybe one of victory, as he looped the strap around his neck, clearing the fog from his glasses.

  
  


_Detective White is back in the field._

  
  


The car was certainly lived in, to an extent. The ghost of luxury presented itself within the creased taupe leather of the seats, the oxidized brass of the handles and locks. It had been a nice car, surely, at some point.

  
  


Kieran leaned over to the passenger’s side and gave the glove compartment a tug. Fortunately, it was unlocked. Unfortunately, it was empty save for the dust inside that stirred and sprung up to cake his lenses.

  
  


Craning himself towards the back, Kieran peered into the seats, his body following. A coat was strewn across one of them, a hat on top. 

  
  


His fingers brushed across his forearm, smudging something down the fabric. The stain was ashy, maybe soot. Squinting in the dark, Kieran took a closer look at the jacket. The sleeves, along with the spatters, were caked in an earthy red. A pair of weathered boots below the seat bore the same marks.

  
  


_He must’ve come from a place where the ground is tinted. And he was in a rush, too, considering he didn’t seem to have time to change from his travel clothes._

  
  


His attention piqued as his fingers brushed something solid in the coat, and he dove into the pockets. Taking the contents in his fist, Kieran peeled through them with diligence.

  
  


A couple of bills. A crumpled receipt, a golden key. A ticket for the _Circus Royale,_ Admit One. The rigid paper stock was branded with red ink, denoted to have been purchased the day prior.

  
  


_Peculiar._

  
  


After photographing the jacket and its contents, Kieran moved further, climbing over the seats to make his way into the trunk. Propping his legs up on the car’s other wall, he made for the thin briefcase that was stowed safely behind old cables and a wrench.

  
  


He popped the latches, sifting through. Nothing but clothes, and a pack of cigars labelled in an unfamiliar dialect from overseas. It didn’t surprise him that Flemmings wasn’t so stupid as to leave his evidence where it could be so easily found, especially considering he hadn’t gotten a room. The double-edge to their plan was evident - the car had been rendered a puzzle for Kieran to crack, and it seemed empty.

  
  


But there had to be _something._

  
  


As he slid back into the row of seats, Kieran’s foot caught on the seat belt sash. Again, he found himself falling sans grace or stealth. It was wise to park in a spot so isolated. A criminal catching him slink around the car like a fool, or anyone for that matter, was a thought so unappealing that Kieran subconsciously began to tread a bit softer, to watch his tracks with a bit more zeal.

  
  


The loose paneling on the car floor rubbed his shoulders as he fell, arms tucked to protect his hands. Pushing himself to lean against the door, Kieran nudged where he’d caught himself. Pliant, it bent against the weight of his shoe, shifting under where he sat. He tried it again.

  
  


He hopped onto the seats, reclining on his stomach to fill the row. The panel was stiff over his fingers, but he persisted to tug at it until a tearing sound satisfied him. Under the carpeting, there was something stiff. _Adhesive._

  
  


Tearing at the glue’s path with only his fingers was a task in and of itself. By the time the material fell free from its bonds, Kieran was fairly sure that despite the time it had been since he’d set foot in such a vehicle, it would be a deal of time more before he willingly entered one again.

  
  


A file had been taped over the wooden frame, the corners pressed down to avoid crease or tear. The papers within held the same scarlet rosette of a seal that McTrevor’s had, the wax affirmations of a _Transaction Concluded._

  
  


Kieran spread them out upon the seats, beginning to capture records of them with his camera. As he shuffled them back into place, the sound of dampened footsteps outside rendered him uneasy.

  
  


He had seen to it that the car would be isolated, away from the others. There was no reason for someone to stray so far from the tavern’s lights, unless they were seeking it.

  
  


Kieran arranged the folder back underneath the panel, slid it back into place. The adhesive was still somewhat active, and fell to stick the documents nicely.

  
  


He sunk down in one of the seats, obscuring himself from view, and preparing to slink underneath them if need be. His worry was stifled when to his opposite, he could make out a reflection of vivid color. He spared himself a look - a familiar couple passed by his hiding spot, arm in arm and clad in black wool and an ocean of tulle.

  
  


It seemed that Kieran would never escape them. But it was better to encounter them than Flemmings. Amidst the newfound quiet, Kieran cracked the door open, slipping out and pressing his boots back tentatively into the gravel.

He spoke too soon. More footsteps.

.

.

.

“It really has been a while. What brings you around these parts, _old friend?”_

  
  


“It seems like you’ve been busy, what with this ‘Secret Operation’ going underwater and all. In the papers, too.” Lauren pulled her hat down over her ears. “This is all _prepwork.”_

  
  


Bella’s eyes widened, and she pressed a finger to her lip, still unsurprised. She had long since learned to expect that her words were heard, and she was always seen. “So you suspected that Flemmings and I were meeting, then?”

  
  


_“Suspected?_ I knew! You thought this would fly under my radar, much less the Scythe’s? _The Leader’s?_ It’s only a matter of time until he wants all of you dead.”

  
  


“No matter. The pieces are all still in place, really.” Bella shrugged, the languid movement upsetting the jacket on her shoulders. “You know me. I have my fun.”

  
  


“You’ve always loved to play with fire.”

  
  


“I do!” She giggled. “And when the time comes… it’ll be _them_ that get scorched. I’ll enjoy it so.”

  
  


“Clever.” Lauren dug her heels into the dirt. “So the Leader charged you to keep an eye on this rogue operation, and to pick off the nuisances.”

  
  


“You could say that.”

  
  


“Does the Seventh suspect you?”

  
  


“I’ve spilled a lot of blood in his name. That’s what comes with taking care of the finances of a criminal organization. He’s come to trust me over the years.” Her eyes flashed.

  
  


“My incredible track record helps, don’t you think, _Ren?”_

.

.

.

Scorning his nerve, Kieran rolled under the car, scrambling to brace himself. He placed a hand and a foot on the inside of each tire. Biting his tongue as he pulled himself up, his back melted into the car’s skeleton, or so he hoped. The way that the treads of his boots gripped the four iron spokes proved his choice to wear the buckle-ridden things a smart one.

  
  


A pair of leather Oxfords threaded through the shadows, kicking up dust. 

The song of metal biting against cloth stung his ears. Kieran hoped that his work had been done well, and he had placed the file where it was to be expected. It wasn’t long before the door to the car closed again. Kieran was about to breathe out a sigh of relief when the shoes weaved around to the car’s bumper, and Flemmings lowered to his knees.

  
  


His hands fell to one of the pipes on the car’s rear, and twisted the metal. It popped free, and from his jacket, Flemmings retrieved another file, nearly identical to the other. It was rolled, placed into the pipe, and refastened. 

  
  


More footsteps followed and lingered for a moment, before fading back the way they came - an echo of a threat. His muscles burned, but Kieran removed a hand from its position and reached for the pipe. Having already begun to stiffen against the cold, it took a bit of effort to bring it loose. Replacing the pipe while holding the papers close with one hand took more. When the deed was done and he was certain that he was once again alone, Kieran let his muscles loosen. The folder tucked in his grasp unfurled then parted, and some of the papers began to slip. He jolted, closing the file but losing his grip. Kieran fell to the grass, tasting the dirt, full hand still raised protectively up in the air, victorious.

  
  


He spit into the ground, flicking his tongue over his teeth. Miraculously, the one part of him not in disarray were the glasses perched on his nose; they had stayed their ground loyally. His situation was bordering on ridiculous.

  
  


The rest of the lot deemed quiet, Kieran crouched behind the bumper, opened the folder to take in its contents.

  
  


As he leafed through the documents, one of the sheets caught his attention. Made his blood run cold.

  
  
  


_No._

.

.

.

  
  


_The nerve she had... to remind her of him._

  
  


The clear amusement flickering on Bella’s lips served only to fuel Lauren’s fire.

  
  


She sneered. “You should watch what you say, _Davenport._ You’re awfully courageous for someone in such limbo.”

  
  


“Lauren! It’s because _I don’t care!”_ Bella grinned and retrieved her knife from her hip, and rubbed her finger across the hilt. A viper, captured in gold and studded with gems, the cruel broad blade emerging from its jaws. “Tell them what you know. Or don’t. I get paid all the same.”

  
  


“Yeah?”

  
  


“Yes! The only change is that _they die sooner.”_

  
  


“You’re still on that serpent whim. I can _smell_ the Golden Viper Venom.” Lauren glanced down at the knife, nodded at it. “I’d bet you want to use it on me, wouldn’t you _, snake?”_

  
  


Bella flicked the heel of the blade’s hilt into her palm. “Please. As fun as it would be to watch _anyone_ endure an extremely agonizing death, I would never use it on a _friend.”_

_._

_._

_._

  
  


Hands quivering, Kieran couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze from Harvey’s photo.

  
  


Brought back to life in monochrome, he looked so familiar. Clean clothes, a modest smile. 

  
  


_From the first day. He’s been betraying us from the start._

  
  


Little to no progress had been made for years, by him or the police, in part at the hand of someone he had considered a friend.

  
  


Kieran closed the file with a snap, his thumb digging into the corner.

  
  


The car was left as it had been found, plus the addition of the newest folder. Kieran had gained only a camera full of evidence and a new ember to burn.

  
  


Harvey overtook the back of his mind. But, he wouldn’t dwell on it while he tread on broken glass.

  
  


If only he could talk to Lauren.

  
  


Something drove him to, instead of going around the inn’s back, hidden, to collect himself and make his way to the front. He passed around the perimeter, pressed a palm into the doorknob. the tucked-away stairs to the room were really so close, but he lingered. Fishing, maybe.

  
  


And when one desires a distraction, a second deed, it finds them.

  
  


“Oy, Suspenders! Third!”

  
  


Kieran froze. He fought the urge to turn.

  
  


“Third-” There was a shuffling of glass on wood. _“-Shit,_ who are you?”

  
  


Tucked under an awning outside, two men sat in front of a dealer. All three were ensconced in smoke, in various states of intoxication and disarray. They all wore the grey button-ups and black belts of a carhop. It seemed that Kieran had company.

  
  


He cleared his throat. _“I’m not Third.”_

  
  


_Third,_ he presumed, was currently unconscious in the dirt on the south side of the building.

  
  


The man on the right elbowed his compatriot. “Suspend the op. We’ll put a letter out tomorrow.”

  
  


“It’s not the first time, won’t be the last.” The other stuck his index out at Kieran. **“Good for you, putting that ass in his place.”**

  
  


_Ah._ So he was already disliked.

  
  


Kieran nodded tersely, some disjointed farewell having lodged in his throat. It seemed they had no intention of letting him leave.

  
  


One of them thrust a card at him, fingers tight against the paper. “Do you play?”

  
  


Kieran furrowed his brow. “Sorry?”

  
  


_“Coup de Grâce.”_ He paused, looking for a spark of recognition. “Third’s not here. We... need a third.” 

  
  


He’d learned to play a time ago, and he told them as much.

  
  


The smaller one leaned down, and hoisted a crate onto the table. Rather than milks or glass, it held bottles, sealed with wax and clustered into loose rows. “We’ve got party favours.”

  
  


Kieran’s hand wavered against the doorknob. He thirsted not for the drink, but for their words. 

  
  


_Lauren was right._

  
  


_I can’t even trust myself._

  
  


The woman at the head of the table shuffled a deck of cards, wound them through fingers dressed in pewter rings. Her lips curled up, and she spoke with a drawl. “Don’t you belong outside with the dogs, _carhop?”_

  
  


On the contrary, Kieran yearned to tease his luck, to play with the ones within. Despite his whims, moral or the like, he’d like to think he’d always been quite constant.

  
  


And he still knew what he wanted. 

  
  


He’d so far run through fire and past stones to stay his course, but to take it into his own hands, for once - because he now knew who had been holding him back. He’d be loath to admit so much, but there was an impending fear about it. Without Lauren by his side, he’d have to play the canary in the cave. He’d have to whistle in the dark.

  
  
  


The seat between the two was empty. Kieran wanted to reel away, vanish through the door had longed for minutes prior. But he placed a hand tentatively on the chair’s back, pulled it out. Submerged himself within the storm.

  
  


Kieran had been vowing to pave his own path, to go incognito. And an opportunity presented itself.

  
  


In a languid motion, Kieran loosened his tie, pulled it down against his sternum. Forged a sneer upon his face, a facade of fire and steel. The gloves stayed on.

  
  


_“Do I look like a carhop to you?”_

  
  


He could shroud himself in wolfshide. He wasn’t much of a sheep.

.

.

.

  
  


Bella pocketed her dagger. The snake reclaimed its spot against her corset, the look in her eyes serpentine all the same. “So I’ll be leaving you be, as much as it pains me to say. But I’ve been satisfied! Got the opportunity to test it just the other day.”

  
  


“Do tell.” Because an explanation would be both intriguing and inevitable. The promise Lauren had made was still fresh in her mind.

  
  


“The spy that the Leader had planted in the Eleventh. He was useless, to the point of being a hindrance.” Bella raised a lacquered finger. “So his time came. Part of me hopes that the next will be just as incompetent.”

  
  


Lauren’s voice dropped. “Such bloodlust. I thought that had been satiated?”

  
  


Bella’s lips parted, melting into a smirk. “And I thought that you’d understand what can come of an obsession.”

  
  


She flinched. “I owe you no explanation. Even so, you weren’t any different.”

  
  


“Oh, but I grew up, _Lauren!”_ Her laugh was lower than any other might expect, piercing through the trees. Lauren no longer recoiled at the noise - she leaned closer.

  
  


_“You don’t get to dissect my convictions.”_

  
  


“Tell me, do you miss the dresses, knotting flowers into that _pretty red hair?”_ Bella’s smile was almost doll-like, porcelain under the moonlight. “ _You do.”_

  
  


Lauren clenched her fists, her hands thankfully unwavering. “You _lie,_ Davenport.”

  
  


“Maybe. But you mustn’t hesitate to throw this _conviction_ of yours away when the time comes, Hyacinth. _And it’s coming.”_

  
  


Bella slipped from her spot against the trees, passing Lauren in her return. 

  
  


“Belladonna.” Lauren passed her as she sheathed her dagger, not sparing her a glance as she began out into the clearing. “I don’t hesitate. Not anymore.”

.

.

.

  
  


The rusted tinge of red on the joker’s cardstock was hard to miss. Kieran thumbed it to the back of his hand, avoiding the stains. 

  
  


Somewhere along the course of rounds, Kieran had christened the men to his left and right First and Second. From time to time, with voices thick and eyes fogged, they still referred to him as Third.

Kieran had long since learned to use his eyes as well as his ears, both in professional training and raw will. The truth lied in his fellow players’ actions, in the little monotonies that meant so much more. 

  
  


First pressed his hand close to his chest when he’d been dealt well. Second would raise the stakes when he was on the edge of loss. The dealer had a face of stone, dark eyes and ashen hair, a narrow jaw that remained clenched through each round. She did her job earnestly. The hands were fair and true.

  
  


With a flicker of his eyes, Kieran could read each of them like a book. And he would do so, detective that he was.

  
  


**“I pity you bastards.”** Second sneered as he slid a bottle cap into the pot.

  
  


Skills aside, he couldn’t deny himself the boons of his ability - or an explicit statement.

  
  


“All in.” Kieran nudged a cap into the center of the table, and reclined back in his seat. As the others laid down their hands, his smile only grew.

  
  


Even though he was the receiver of three skeptical looks, he didn’t bother to hide his amusement, taking a swig from a bottle of his own. Hell, he might’ve even been having fun - something distorted, jagged. But _fun._

  
  


Despite it all, he remembered what he had come to do. And he would do it.

  
  


“Damn this.” Second flicked a cap into Kieran’s lap, and the others followed suit. A tin of cigars was passed around the table, and when it reached him, he was looked upon with expectant eyes. 

  
  


He was already so suspicious.

  
  


First pressed a lighter into his palm, and Kieran brushed his thumb across the sparkwheel, the warmth sparking against his fingers as it flickered to life. The end of his cig smoked before catching, the haze clouding his vision and burning his nostrils. 

  
  


_I’ll be fine._

  
  


Pressing it to his lips, he inhaled. Stifled the protest from his lungs. At least, audibly.

  
  


_I can’t breathe. I can’t-_

  
  


Kieran snuffed the burning end out against the ashtray.

  
  


The others took no notice, distracted by movement within the building. Second nodded in that direction. “Oh, so that’s her?” 

  
  


“Know her by the eyes.” First bowed his head, shuffled his cards. He leered as he stared after their target, blowing smoke through his teeth. _“Pensive.”_

  
  


The dealer slammed her drink to the table. “I’d like to see you tell her so! I’ll prep the bag for your body in my trunk - I didn’t think that we’d need them so early!”

  
  


As they roared with laughter, an edge of nervousness tangible in their tones, Kieran’s stomach dropped. In their distraction, he pushed himself out of his chair, rounded the corner to lurk in the quiet. He barely caught a glimpse of Lauren flick past the window panes, the crimson from her hair unmistakeable even under the starlight.

  
  


The hysterics had run scarce as Kieran retook his seat. He adjusted the drink in front of him, the glass still sweating from the cold - he hadn’t been long. The muscles of his back fell taut as the others watched him wordlessly.

  
  


After a moment of such scrutiny, the dealer spoke up. “Give me your name, guttersnipe.”

  
  


“This isn’t my _maiden voyage,”_ Kieran sneered. “I won’t be the first to say it. _Don’t take me for a fool.”_

_“Why, aren’t you just another fish in the barrel?”_ She rubbed her thumb across her ashtray, then brushed it across the tablecloth. “You sat down at my table, to play my game. When I start a game, you stay. You don’t leave. Clear?”

  
  


He swallowed. “As day.”

Really, Kieran stood in the darkness. And he knew it.

.

.

.

  
  


Shaded as the room was, Lauren found comfort - or rather a sense of security - in it. She had long since learned that shadows were companions, and places such as these were things to hope for.

  
  


The cloth of her gloves grew damp as she pressed her fingertips to the window, coated in melting frost. The lock on its hinges was fairly simple, if closed at all. There was a tree opposite the pane, brittle and bare from the winter. Assuming things took a turn for the worst, it would be able to support her weight. If not, she had made jumps from heights and with heels twice as high. She flicked it readily.

  
  


Her partner, however obnoxious, had never been one to test her patience. Though she carried no watch, it didn’t take one to know that he was late. Quite.

  
  


Lauren drew an arm across her chest, brought her other hand up to finger the embroidery along her hat. Daisies, drawn out in purple thread with details could only be truly seen in the lowlight. 

  
  


She’d always had an affinity for them. Not that she’d ever say.

Lauren often thought of him.

It had been some time. But when the snowfall came and her breath would turn to mist and smoke, she thought of him the most, truly.

But maybe, in some sense, she was lying to herself all the same.

.

.

.

The group’s attention had floated from the game into a parley of sorts, casual conversation laced with intention.

  
  


Passing a rag to Second, the dealer scowled. “Take care of your hand. You’re screwing with my deck.”

  
  


“Come on, now. They’re cheap.” Despite his words, he wrapped the cloth around the heel of his palm. “Shit, could’ve sworn this was scarring.”

  
  


First glanced up from his drink. “Bastard snagged your other hand. **Accident, remember?”**

  
  


“Oh, did he, now?”

  
  


Both of Kieran’s tablemates displayed various traces of ruin. As they moved their hands over the wood in a sort of fumbling dance, touching cardstock and glass, he could make out burns and slices along their knuckles and palms. They took pride in their marks both jaded and fresh; it was evident in the way they carried themselves, the manner in which they let their damages hit the light.

A trail of bruises littered the back of First’s neck, blending into his dark hair from around his ear. He brushed it back, fingering the marks with a sort of rapture that he didn’t care to speak of.

  
  


“What about you, _Third? Mr. No Name?”_ He pronounced the pseudonyms with wide vowels and enunciation, letting them dance on his tongue. “What’s to say about that pretty face?”

  
  


Kieran stuck out his chin, gestured to a nick along his jaw. In most lights it wasn’t visible. But, the dim flickering through the window panes washed over it indiscriminately, along with any of the few other weathered marks he bore.

  
  


Leaning forward to scrutinize it, the dealer pressed her cards into the table. “Any story?”

  
  


“Fell on the rocks down by the coast as a kid.”

  
  


“Bullshit.” 

  
  


“Guilty. Or not, take from it what you will.” In honesty, his own words sounded objective to him - lies or truth, he found himself indifferent. Each word rolled off of his tongue without a second thought, or even a first. Though he wasn’t as _gone,_ swept away like the others by the drink, he felt its tides. They lapped at his ankles, warmed him, threatening to pull him under.

  
  


She snorted. “You really don’t have much to show, do ya?” 

  
  


“What’s to say? I wash my hands and keep my sleeves clean. That’s all there is to it.”

  
  


Before he could react - and he should have been able to - First sprang from his seat, dug a finger into Kieran’s knuckles. Pushing his nail into the leather, he locked eyes with him, an abnormal honey-glazed humor masking something sharp, vicious. “But you keep your gloves on, and don’t care to wipe the bags from under your eyes?”

  
  


As the three of them laughed, their eyes didn’t leave Kieran. There was something new, something savage under this facade, this _game._

  
  


Kieran found his window had closed. He sobered - he hoped he did.

  
  


As Kieran stood, his legs gave out a bit, from under him. He noted a sort of numbness, blossoming from his chest out, lulling his brain. He braced himself against the table, nodded to the others, and wrapped his fingers around the neck of his bottle. 

  
  


Second raised a brow, propping his chin on his arm as he took another sip from his own. “Why so soon? Don’t leave your comrades, the night is young.”

  
  


Kieran’s voice was deeper, raspier, as he raised his drink, twisted his face into a crueler smile that lacked any joy or sense of himself. “I have no doubt that we’ll meet again. _Comrades.”_

  
  


As soon as he had rounded the corner, weaved his way out of the players’ views, Kieran whirled into the wall, pressing his hands into the moss-ridden wooden panels. He pushed his weight into his palms in an attempt to ground himself. It felt he was floating, some pulse in his head growing louder, harder.

  
  


From his perspective he was being broken, from the inside out. Tearing at the seams and unraveling as he closed his eyes, trying to uniform his breathing, his motions. It was to no avail. He tried to shake away the horrid, stingingly sweet taste that bloomed on his tongue.

  
  


What was this euphoria, this _Hell?_

  
  


Damn her, and her words.

  
  


_If you’re not wicked from the moment you set your foot in the door, they’ll know._

  
  


_And they’ll tear you to pieces._

  
  


It hurt more, almost, that he was quite certain of what had been done.

  
  


With vision that began to melt, Kieran peered down at the bottle in his hands.

  
  


Out. He needed to get _out._ To breathe, somewhere free, empty of cigarette smoke and fiendish intentions. The water was seething in his lungs.

  
  


But first, that damned vice in his grasp. Under one of the moth-ridden lamps, he stooped down, moved to set the neck to lean against the inn’s wall in the gravel and grass. No other notion filled his mind, other than to get it away, and to get away from it. _Get it away from me._

  
  


Yet, the sound of glass breaking filled his mind- once, twice, three times. The ocean filled his ears. Slices of it pricked his forearm and wrist, splintered into the heels of his palms. His knuckles ached as they fell into the building’s facade, bone against wood .Under his vision, the fractured pieces sparkled in the grass, the amber liquid dancing over the fractures and into the grass, seeping like blood from a wound.

  
  


Either way, it was gone. That was a gift in itself.

  
  


_Out._

Possibly, he cried out in relief as his palms brushed against bramble, felt the leaves whip across his face as he moved. _How am I moving?_

  
  


. The cold air plunged into his lungs, swift and clean and sharper by the second, a knife paring against the walls of his throat. 

  
  


It was a relief for a moment, but the stabbing grew into something agonizing. He was alone. He didn’t want to be alone. 

  
  


Even still, it was the best case, being in a place where he could fall apart in peace, and only the stars would know. Maybe the moon.

  
  


As he raked his fingers over his scalp, tried to remedy the pounding in his head, he felt the ribbon in his hair loosen, then go slack. A fleck of pulsing gold in the corner of his eye jolted him, and he reached towards it, desperately.

  
  


It was further than he had gaged. His lunge turned to a fall and his palm grazed a tree stump, his knuckles rapping against the bark. He melted into the steadiness of it. Still, it seemed to move.

  
  


God, it was so _warm._

  
  


And it pounded still, the storm and the harshest staccato of a drumbeat in his head. It left his mind, manifested in his ears, in the chills that shook his spine as footfalls echoed through the copse. He could hear them, vehemently - controlled, decisive.

  
  


Twisting in the dirt, Kieran turned himself to peer up at his company. Obstructing the light of the moon was a figure, dark and dappled, the only legible thing gold. _Gold_ \- a pair of hawkish golden eyes, narrowed in fury. _Lauren._

  
  


He wasn’t alone. _I’m not alone._

  
  


It was almost funny.

  
  


Kieran tried for a smile, muscles quivering, cringing against the flashing lights. _“Well, it seems that I’ve- I’ve finally fallen for-”_

  
  


His words were bitten from his tongue. His breath was stolen from his lungs. The darkness tugged on his lids, seduced him into a dreamless sleep. A living death.

  
  


Kieran was caught in the riptide.

  
  


He got what he deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd be amiss not to mention that substance spiking is a real threat and concern. I do not drink, nor did I base my writing off of any specific drug - it was a combination of situations and symptoms that I educated myself on. I found [Alcohol.org](https://www.alcohol.org/guides/spiked/) to be very informational, and the [Alcohol and Drug Foundation](https://adf.org.au/insights/drink-spiking/#:~:text=If%20you%20think%20your%20drink,for%20the%20presence%20of%20drugs.) provided insight and advice as well.
> 
> Anywho- What a tangled web I weave. Sigh.
> 
> This was the longest chapter I've written thus far- by more than 2000 words. And half of it is Kieran clowning around in the back of a car. Cheers.
> 
> This chapter sparked a new love for Belladonna within me. She was an absolute JOY to write. I hope you all enjoyed her too!
> 
> Okay so honestly, a lot of the direction this chapter took has been sitting in my mind for quite a while. The carhop spiel came to me quite early on (Chapter 2, anyone?), and that kind of... festered? So I built my way around that, and perhaps have written something entirely nonsensical in the process- oops.
> 
> Part of how I find myself justifying such differentiations are my characterizations of Kieran and Lauren in general. While in canon, Kieran elected to bide his time, I feel like Lauren would take a more turbulent approach. Taking the final room, electing to search Flemmings' car instead? Dangerous, but fast. While Kieran is more calculating, at least from my impressions, Lauren is willing to stretch herself (not to mention her partner) rather thin to achieve what she wants, as she finds herself nullifying any involved risk. A lot of the reasoning behind Lauren and Kieran's respective motives in canon and in this fic also played into my other decisions here. Hopefully, a bit of this carried through :>
> 
> Also, I really wanted to write a scene of Kieran (or Lauren, should I have included it in one of my future fic plans) playing cards, accounting for the possession of such an ability/trained skills. So I did, HA. Also, I expanded on the Lauren/Bella interaction. In part for the sake of the direction I intend to take, but I was also just really feeling the dark Assassin Lauren vibes this month OKAY-
> 
> I’m more anxious than usual, posting this chapter- due to its content, in more ways than one- first, I wanted to handle the drink-spiking with sensitivity and care. Additionally, this is the closest in this fic (or anywhere public, for that matter) I’ve gotten so far to plotting something on my own. I tried to work on some specific points in my writing- imagery, conversation, flow. This was also supposed to be a crux of some of the characterization to come, even in the next chapter. So did I introduce three plot devic- I mean, background characters? I did, for the sake of that drive. Will I be using them again? Likely not, and for that, I apologize.
> 
> This turned out to be a bit of an essay! I’m so grateful to each and every one of you for reading, supporting me, and making this so special. Thanks for reading <3


	17. Insusurro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe that was the difference between him and her, the vehement messes. He could be torn apart and still scramble to pick up the fractured parts, to make himself whole. The assassin no longer bothered to fix her wreckage. She chose to marvel at the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: whisper)_

His crawl back to consciousness was slower than he cared to think.

  
  


From his perspective, the first awakening was fast, rapid. Like falling victim to a broken infatuation, springing headfirst from the clutches of a nightmare - except, in that moment, Kieran was within one.

  
  


His world was brought back to life before him, in sickening definition. Colors unfurled like flower petals before his eyes, black and then blue, ringing his vision like fresh bruises. The sensation was muted, a paracosm within his mind amidst the trees. 

  
  


Grass brushed the bottom of his palms, and he dug his hands into it, tangling within the blades. His fingers were disgustingly warm, slick in the greenery. He clenched a fist, and it seemed his arm ignited at the touch.

  
  


A flicker of memory sparked in the back of his head - he knew he was in danger. 

  
  


He tensed up where he lay on his side, his limbs arranged decisively like those of a porcelain doll on a shelf. And he would be maimed as such, his skin shattered because he was too appallingly pure, breakable like glass.

  
  


The fire spread from his arm to his chest.

  
  


Kieran’s breath hitched as he inhaled, a rattling sound like metal against stone, louder than he had cared to be. He pitched over, coughing, each convulsion driving another knife to his gut. He thrust his hands out to catch himself, pain spiking through his wrists.

  
  


_ “Shit...” _ The curse was as sure as a prayer on his lips, and he chanted it as one under his breath. First without conviction or timbre, then growing audible as a bead of sweat rolled down his face, dropping languidly to the grass below. It was matted, some blades tainted by red.

  
  


“Kieran?” A voice piped up from behind him. The tone was familiar, slightly on edge.

  
  


Lauren was by his side. He collapsed in on himself, falling like a tower of cards, locking his jaw and looking down as his eyes began to burn. He wasn’t alone.

  
  


His right arm had been lacerated. A vice seemed to coil around his throat as he saw the mark of glass rather than a blade, traced on a gash that ran parallel to bone up his forearm, ending an inch shy of his wrist. The bottle, he presumed, must have cracked, and then splintered. It would explain the glints of glass that punctured the leather of his gloves, embedded into the heel of his palm. Each little piece reflected off of the moonlight, tainted crimson, like a cruel menagerie of stars. He had grabbed for a rose and only found acquaintance with its thorns.

  
  


The wounds had been at his own hand. His relief felt more like panic _.  _ He held his hand out behind him, and yelped as the tattered skin protested, tearing further against his motions.

  
  


“Kieran, hey. Wait.” Lauren wound around to his front, tilted his chin up in her fingers. “Stop.”

  
  


His voice was thick, still smoke-bitten and harsh. Near hysterical. “Stop what, Lauren? I can’t  _ stop-” _

  
  


_ “You have to stop.”  _ Her eyes darted back and forth between his, and she pressed the palm of her other hand into his forehead. They were frigid. He must have been scorching. “You’re going to need to help me.”

  
  


She put her hands to his shoulders, propping him back up against the tree. Her eyes followed him still, studying him, hands on his shoulders still.  _ Scrutinizing. _

  
  


Her skin against his was nauseating. He melted into the ground, away from her.  _ “Just let me breathe. Please.” _

  
  


His voice jumped, lilting up at the end in a sort of a plea, more of a query than a statement. He couldn’t bother to control it. She didn’t have an answer.

  
  


But she understood. Lauren stepped back, standing up from her crouched position. As her hands left him, he found himself feeling a bit better and a deal worse.

  
  


She brushed off the front of her dress, her eyes trained away from Kieran. Her sword lay idle on the other side of the tree trunk, the hilt pressed to the bark. Lauren no longer wore her gloves, and her knuckles were white against it as she seized it in one movement. She tucked the blade through the hem of her skirt. The regular fluidity of her motions were disrupted by a frost, a tension. 

  
  


His body no longer belonged to himself. The same one that had carried him through the streets, now over rooftops in the black of night, through rubble, now felt so fragile, even ephemeral. Doused in sweat, wracked by tremors. Almost as if he had been embalmed, pumped full of chemicals and salted to oblivion. Kieran wanted nothing more than to shed his skin, to remedy the bogged blackness in his lungs, the chemical sugar-sweetness that scorched his mouth. It was a feeling that should have died before, at the murder of his youth, at the hand of  _ smoke. _

“So-” Kieran buried his head in his hands. “I’ve been like this for how long?”

  
  


“An hour. Give or take.”

  
  


“I was  _ diligent, _ I was  _ sure, _ I-” The bottle had been sealed, he had checked. He had been so vigilant. But it came to him- his leave. The wolvish looks he’d been given upon his return. “I’ve screwed us over. I can’t remember. _ ” _

  
  


Lauren cut him off. “You’re thinking too much.”

  
  


“I don’t think  _ enough.  _ That’s the problem. _ ”  _ He propped himself up to sit, baring his teeth in more of a grimace than a smile. Fractured recollections flooded his mind, rendered illegible like damaged camera film - a flash of metal, the shuffling of cards.  _ Harvey. _

  
  


Something inside him soured, sucked him tired and dry.

The glasses had somehow remained on his face despite it all. Damning them, he pulled the frames from his nose and snapped them in two, a clean break down the centerpiece. His stomach churned as he laughed, sliding the broken mess of wire and glass into his pocket. His voice dropped to a whisper. 

  
  


“Come now, this is funny.  _ Really. _ I could very well be bleeding out-” He gestured to his arm, and then to his neck, his heart. “-and I would think to myself,  _ ‘Good riddance.’ _ ”

  
  


Lauren eyed him. “I’m not asking you to explain now, and honestly, that’s kind. But if you don’t listen to me, I’ll put you right back under and drag you off myself.”

  
  


He nodded, closing his eyes and inhaling, breathing in the cold air. It resuscitated him, to an extent.

  
  


“We’ve made too much noise out here. We need to  _ go.” _ Lauren peered over her shoulder. The woods seemed quiet, the inn’s light barely visible. “I don’t know who you were involved with, but I’d bet they're coming for you too. So I don’t have time for you to be stubborn. I won’t deal with it.”

  
  


Kieran moved to pick up his pieces. A camera to his left, a flash of gold to his right. His ribbon- he reached for it, and pain shot up his arm. With his better hand, he pocketed the ribbon and slung the camera back across his neck.

  
  


He looked up, and a hand was outstretched to him. Lauren’s face had softened, though still stone. “Come on.”

  
  


He took it. 

  
  


As his feet found purchase in the bramble, his temples began to pound. Kieran jabbed a palm into the closest branch. He chose incorrectly; bits of glass and wood pressed further into his skin, but he didn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t, with his body fragile and mind as inconstant as the changing tides.

  
  


Lauren stepped behind him, taking his better hand and pressing it into her shoulder. “We’re not far from the border. If we’re fast, it’ll be easier.”

  
  


He nodded. Lauren became the other half of his balance, and he leaned into her. “I found a file on Harvey in Flemmings’ car.”

  
  


“Save your breath, Kieran.”

  
  


He ignored her. “He was a spy for the Phantom Scythe. This whole time, he was betraying us.”

  
  


Her mouth twitched. “I heard, tonight, too. People in the Grim Goblin talk.”

  
  


“Do you know who-  _ Ah-”  _ He grimaced as a stray bramble raked across his arm. The blood on it had congealed, catching his sleeve and glove in the mess. “-Do you know who killed him, then?”

  
  


“Talked to her. Name’s Belladonna Davenport.” Lauren’s voice sounded strained, worn thin. “If I’m being generous, I could call her an ‘old friend’ of mine. She acted on orders from the Leader- apparently, he had worn out his use.”

  
  


“Did he?” Considering the snare he’d strung Kieran into, he seemed to have done fairly well.

“I wouldn’t count on being able to send her to jail, anyhow. Many have tried, none have succeeded. Or lived.”

  
  


“Reassuring.” When he chuckled, his chest felt too heavy, and his breaths too deep.

  
  


She shifted his weight across her shoulders. “So, it seems I can’t hold my end of the 

bargain.”

  
  


They would find no justice for the traitor. 

  
  


“That’s fine. It burns me, it  _ hurts-”  _ Kieran shook his head, recoiling. “But I can’t really find it within me to care. Damn, it feels like I’m dying.”

  
  


Lauren’s shoulders dipped, her voice deadpanned. “You’re not dying.”

  
  


“I _know,”_ he snarled, “but it _feels like it.”_

  
  


Their shoes soon touched pavement rather than the soil of the woods. They weren’t in an area as secluded as Kieran had thought. Greychapel was closer to the Eleventh than he’d assumed. He’d forgotten.

  
  


Lauren craned her neck, looking down each side of the street. Empty. “Does it disturb you, knowing that there are moles in the APD? There have been, for a long time.”

  
  


“I’m not surprised, frankly. And you said as much, the first time we met.” But she didn’t say. Her honesty had come in the form of a lie.

  
  


She seemed to consider it, the time  _ before. _ “I remember.”

  
  


“But I never would’ve considered  _ Harvey-  _ I always thought he was different, you know?” He laughed to himself, his voice springing feebly from some cavity in his chest. It sounded as hapless as he felt. “One of the genuine ones.”

  
  


“You never noticed anything… off? He never told a lie?”

  
  


“Nothing I would’ve found concerning. And to think he had so much to hide… I just feel like I’ve been so  _ blind.” _

  
  


“Not being able to see beyond his facade, if we’re assuming he was under one-” Lauren gestured to him. “- doesn’t make you blind. It makes you conform with most of this city.”

  
  


He tensed. “It really does make me wonder, though. What would he have found so appealing about the Scythe? Or was he forced into it? Maybe out of poverty, possibly threatened or blackmailed?”

  
  


“Anyone’s guess. Could’ve been a combination of the things you said, or none of them at all.”

  
  


_ Anyone’s guess. _ A question that would never be answered.

  
  
  


Kieran began to nod off, the night having taken its obvious toll. Lauren prodded him in the ribs. “Perk up, Officer. We’re here.”

  
  


He flicked his head up, the beginnings of a scowl tugging at his face. “I haven’t even told you-”

  
  


“This is  _ my _ apartment.”

  
  


“Why can’t you just bring me home?” Kieran knew he was too far gone to register anything but discontent, would not gather energy enough to question it beyond what was elementary.

  
  


Lauren humored him. “Because I refuse to hobble with you across the next Precinct, and I doubt you can manage on your own.”

  
  


He heaved, flicking his good hand towards the door in consent. 

  
  


Kieran managed to make it through the threshold before his body revolted against him again. At the sight of porcelain tiling through a parted door, he removed himself from Lauren’s shoulder and bolted through the dark, somehow gathering the scraps of his energy into an uneasy gait. The alcohol came up as easily as it went down, and Kieran welcomed the purging.

  
  


Unwillingly, he caught his reflection in the washroom mirror - bloodshot eyes ringed by bags, lips tinged purple, his face washed a sickening green and white. He could always count on mirrors to show him the truth, to reflect the reality of what he didn’t want to see. Maybe that was why he still bothered to linger on them.

  
  


When Kieran trusted himself to leave, back of hand pressed to his mouth and jaw clenched like a vice, he found that the flat’s lights had been turned on. He hadn’t yet given himself the opportunity to scope out his surroundings.

  
  


The entire apartment was washed pallid, almost white. The different walls were painted in various shades - a sterile ivory over the doors, a more jaded creme in the concave with the cabinets and ovens. A smaller hallway breaking off from the kitchen was tinted the lightest blue. A pendant light washed a sturdy taupe glow over the rooms. The windows, draped with yellow curtains, provided the rooms with a life that they would have otherwise been near unable to supply.

  
  


Lauren had taken her shoes off, thrown her hat and coat onto the couch. Her hair had been tied into a messy bun and the stole was missing from her shoulders. The combination of her disheveled clothing and hair almost gave the impression that she had returned from one of the clubs, still high off of good music and the proximity of others. The somber humor in her eyes as she looked at her companion was anything but euphoric. She leaned over the counter in her kitchenette, eyebrows raised. “On the house tonight, Officer.”

  
  


He managed to croak out a feeble  _ “Water,”  _ and moved to join her at the sink. Each movement on his own felt like swimming from one island to another; it was only a few steps before he felt his legs begin to shake, or the blood felt to be siphoned from his head.

  
  


Lauren swept an arm across the countertop, sliding the few papers atop it to the side. “Sit.”

  
  


She turned back, retrieving a glass from a cupboard and filling it to the brim. Kieran took a sip, washing the bile from his throat. The clarity had begun to return to the corners of his vision, and he felt a bit more like himself. “So the mysterious Lauren Rosenthal doesn’t live in a cave, after all.”

  
  


“I sincerely hope you didn’t think I lived there.”

  
  


“I don’t care to answer that.”

  
  


She rolled her eyes. “Wait here.”

  
  


She left him on the countertop, disappearing into the alcove. Kieran heard a rustling from a room beyond. He tried to down the glass with steady movements, sipping in intervals. She returned with a medical kit, and a bowl and glass jar under her arm. “So. The Grim Goblin.”

  
  


“Flemmings was meeting with Davenport, the assassin I just told you about. She’s acting as a sort of supervisor in the Apostle’s operation.” She arranged the supplies in a tidy line to Kieran’s side, and hoisted the bucket to the sink. She twisted the faucet, turning back to Kieran as it began to fill. “Seven’s gone off the tracks.”

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“He’s taken over the Leader’s operation. I’m not sure what his motives are behind doing something so risky. But the Leader’s aware of the rebellion, Davenport’s made sure of that. He has their intel.”

  
  


“She’s double-crossing them.”

  
  


“I’m not surprised, honestly. Considering her nature...” Lauren looked down at his forearm, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeve. “You need stitches.”

  
  


“More infiltration for us then. But -” He winced as Lauren pressed her fingers to the wound. “I’ve had my fair share.”

  
  


She prodded at the mess of blood and fabric. “Shirt off.”

  
  


“Not the  _ time, Rosenthal.” _

  
  


Lauren scowled. “Tonight was stressful, wasn’t it? It would be plausible if my hands were a little shaky, and  _ slipped as I sutured. _ The gloves need to go too.”

  
  


She hoisted the bucket from the sink and dropped it at his side, water lapping up the tin walls in her haste. Before disappearing behind a door on the other side of the kitchen, she flashed Kieran a pointed look.

  
  


When his gaze fell to the gloves on his hands, Kieran bit down on his tongue. Hard.

  
  


By siphoning pain from the places most inevitable, he eased both his body and his mind. Pain was just that, all scales and balances, delegation of life’s more harrowing moments to his flesh or his head or his heart.

  
  


He configured the hurt to his liking as he tugged the material up from where it was pinned to his skin. The glass fractals began to tear from their catches, the larger pieces falling to the kitchen floor and counter with a feeble sound. By the time Kieran moved to slide the second glove to the ground, his mouth had begun to taste of rusted copper and rain.

  
  


Kieran unclipped his suspenders and slid them over his shoulders, the straps falling to the ground unceremoniously. His tie soon followed. As he fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, he pulled his eyes away from the disaster that was himself. “I never want to see these clothes again.”

  
  
  


“If I can’t get those stains out, I’ll make sure you don’t. They should be burned.” A clattering accompanied her response.

  
  


“Much obliged.” He found his shoulder was already aching, beginning to purple from his fall. His stomach jumped as he tugged the grey fabric over the bleeding wound, catching in the mess. When the shirt fluttered down to top the incongruous pile on the floor, Kieran nudged it further under the counter. He would not look.

  
  


Cupping his hands, he plunged them into the bucket, rubbing water over his shoulders, arms, his neck. It trickled down his skin lazily, peeling away at layers of grime that fell like candle wax. When he pulled his fingers away, he noted the residue of powder. His hands fluttered consciously to his throat. 

  
  


It was foolish of him. He still found himself applying a covering, but the bruises had disappeared days ago. A force of habit, he supposed.

  
  


His eyes drifted down to his legs, the way they dangled and swung. Their movements almost reminded him of those of pendulum, and he were the clock, ticking and counting down to something he couldn’t predict, much less  _ fathom- _

  
  


He shook his head. Whatever was coursing through his veins had tapped more than his movements, it had taken root in his thoughts.

  
  


As Lauren returned, Kieran swallowed. “I want you to know what I know. As much as I can remember.”

  
  


Lauren dropped a needle into the glass, letting it soak. “Then I’ll listen.”

  
  


_ Give and take.  _

  
  


“Flemmings’ car went fine, according to plan. Mostly. A close run in with him and some others, but I handled it.” He gestured to the camera. “This is where the value lies, anyhow.”

  
  


“There were three of them, outside.” Kieran could hear the tension in his voice. “They made it seem like they were out of place, too, like they weren’t meant to be there.”

  
  


Lauren uncorked a bottle of pure liquid, pouring it into a glass. The scent made Kieran’s head burn. “Remember their faces?”

  
  


“I… not really.” He squinted. “I remember two men, a woman with rings. Cards. Blood…” He loathed that he couldn’t recall much else.

  
  


“Did they approach you?” She pressed a rag, soaked in the alcohol, to the wound.

  
  


Kieran ignored the bite of it. “No, that’s the thing. I approached them.”

  
  


She stopped. “What did you want?”

  
  


Kieran shrugged. “Answers.”

  
  


“Answers..."

  
  


“I got careless. Something in my drink. I don’t know where I put the bottle.” He laughed, shook his head. “I can hear lies, not predict the future.”

  
  


That was the crux of the matter. He had become too reliant.

  
  


“I’m not an expert by any means. But it likely wasn’t an aphrodisiac, and judging by the fact that you’re standing, it wasn’t one of the Scythe’s tranqs.” Lauren analyzed him. “My guess is that it was something homemade. They might’ve thought to take it themselves before they tested it. There’s not much I can actively do to ease the process.”

  
  


“I’ll manage.”

  
  


“I’ll stop by the inn sometime. See if I can piece anything together.”

  
  


Give and take. They pushed and pulled, rowing together across a river, following the current with near no direction of our own.

  
  


Maybe Lauren had one. If so, she hadn’t bothered to tell him.

  
  


She pulled a pair of tweezers from her kit. “Tell me about Flemmings’ car.”

  
  


Kieran nudged the camera at his side, brushing his finger across the lense. “I took pictures. Probably for the better, since-” He tapped his temple. “Assuming my memory serves me well, I found a lot of papers, receipts. Some had the same seal as the ones from McTrevor. Looked like they were from some project he was responsible for overseas.”

  
  


He held his arm out to her. New beads of crimson had already begun to spring up where he had wiped them clean. Underneath the peppering of red, a white streak crossed his palm, healed but angry still. 

  
  


Bruises had faded, cuts had healed. Kieran’s hand began to shake. Lauren placed a knuckle over his fingers, pinning his arm to the counter as she began to stick his palm, removing the splinters and shards.

  
  


“One file mentioned an associate. Coming from overseas, crossing the border.”

  
  


She dipped the tweezers back into the alcohol. “Interesting. I’m glad you got this on record.”

  
  


“One of my better ideas.” He flexed his fingers. “There were smoke burns and reddish stains on Flemmings’ coat. I think they were relatively fresh.”

  
  


“We can work with that.” She pressed a dry rag into his better hand, dropping the tweezers to the counter and picking up the needle.

  
  


Kieran held the cloth up, brows raised in query. Lauren tapped her lips. “Can’t have you screaming and waking up the entire block.”

  
  


“Why, that’s so  _ considerate!”  _ Rather than setting it between his teeth, he pressed it to the table beside him.

  
  


“I wouldn’t advise that.” She pressed her finger to the needle’s floss, separating the strings and adjusting her grip. “Anything else in your system will be flirting with death. So your courage won’t be liquid tonight.”

  
  


“Let me choose my tolerance. Maybe I want it to hurt.” And he did- to feel pain of each suture, to lean into them. To take rapture in how it would sting, and how he would allow it. He would, at one point that night, be in control; he would make sure of that much. The balances were in his hands.

  
  


The retribution was his to take. And he took it.

  
  


Lauren’s voice lowered. “Fine by me. Scream away, masochist.”

  
  


“Don’t call me a masochist.” He sprung from the counter, standing in front of Lauren. He extended his forearm to her. He would bear it on his feet. “Just think of it as therapeutic, punishment for the little lamb who decided to make himself known at the slaughter.”

  
  


“Officer. Don’t flatter yourself, please. Is that what you’re telling yourself, that you made it that far?” Lauren poised the tip of the needle against his skin, eyes gleaming at him all the time.  _ “You know nothing of the slaughter.” _

  
  


“What a  _ kind reminder  _ that I’m-” She pushed metal to skin, and began her work. His quip was snagged from his throat, stretched into something more akin to a shriek.  _ “What kind of FUCKING needle- it’s longer than-” _

  
  


Kieran’s mind was unfittingly kind to him. 

  
  


The pain branded him, surely, but it was fast. 

  
  


When the floss was tied and cropped, it reverberated through him. Kieran was left shaking, bleary-eyed, feeling bare and base like the wounded animal he was. The cloth that lay idle behind him was victory enough. Having proven his point, he hoisted himself back onto the counter, arm still held rail-straight ahead of him.

  
  
  


As Lauren worked under the faucet, the water ran down on alcohol and blood, on her tools and hands, thinning and freeing like silt from the sea. The silence between them was self-evident. Kieran disrupted it. He swallowed- his throat was still so dry. He rasped, quietly,  _ “Your golden eyes look especially pensive today.” _

  
  


It was weak, and they both knew it. It was still almost comforting to Kieran, the simple fact that he still felt the need to fashion barbs for himself, to set them at the end of his tongue. He could still seek comfort in wielding them. 

  
  


The glance she flashed him from the sink was baleful, to say the least. “So you’re hopping on the bandwagon, then.”

  
  


“I was under the impression that it was less of a bandwagon and more of a collective hearse.” Kieran shrugged. Even despite the dried blood and sting in his eyes, he still found it within himself to joke, to act like some obnoxious schoolboy he’d long since grown from. 

  
  


“Maybe you’d get a bit more sympathy from me-” She flicked him with the running water. “- If your own  _ pretty eyes _ were condemned to the same fate.”

  
  


He scoffed. “Thanks for the token honesty.”

  
  


When she turned back to the sink to dry the needle and jars, Kieran bit back a smile. “My compliments to the medic. While I wonder why the needle was longer than the wound itself, no one can say that you don’t work fast.”

  
  


“I had to learn pretty quickly.” She nodded over to him. Kieran’s eyes fell to her scars, the beginnings of them that he could see from their hideaways under fabric. They had become more visible, and Lauren more lenient, as she melted into the comfort of her own home. The cycle of damage, the repetitive pain, seemed to be what harbored such discipline. It was something Kieran both coveted and evaded. “Still, be careful tonight. I don’t want you bleeding all over my sheets.”

  
  


His grip on the table tightened. “I beg your pardon?”

  
  


“You’d be stupid to try and spend the night by yourself. After all that’s happened.” She looked to him with conviction. “You have to know that.”

  
  


He breathed in through his teeth. “I can’t…”

  
  


Lauren exhaled. “I know you live alone. It’s not like there’s anyone to miss you.”

  
  


_“Ouch.”_ He snorted. “Stab me again with the damn needle, why don’t you?”

  
  


“That’s not what I-“ She threw her hands to her sides. “Don’t try and argue this with me. I’ll take the couch.”

  
  


He had lost a lot, he understood.

  
  


That night, he had lost his trust in the night, and those who hid within it. There was no credence in considering one a friend. Kieran had lost faith in himself - in his own body. He was scraping himself raw to scour more, to stoke the embers of what feeble spark remained, if there was any to begin with. He was delusional.

  
  


But the apartment was warm, and the winter streets were cold, and he felt so  _ broken.  _ He didn’t have many options, save for pulling his white flag, surrendering.

  
  


After a moment of torment, Kieran nodded. It seemed he had a bit of trust to spare. 

  
  


Maybe that was the difference between him and her, the vehement messes. He could be torn apart and still scramble to pick up the fractured parts, to make himself whole. The assassin no longer bothered to fix her wreckage. She chose to marvel at the pieces.

  
  


Lauren disappeared through a door, and emerged with a folded mass in her hands. She tosses it to Kieran, and he unfolded it. A pair of cotton trousers. “You just happened to have these on hand?”

  
  


**“Ex-lover’s.”**

  
  


“Yeah, right.”

  
  


Lauren whirled to face him. “You’d be surprised at the kinds of expeditions I take. I don’t remember if I wore them on recon or stole them.”

  
  


“So, on the off-chance that you’re lending me the clothes of a dead man?”

  
  


“Kieran, I’m not letting you wear…” She looked in disgust to the pair he wore, caked in mud at the hems and blood at the waistline. “... _ that  _ in my bed.”

  
  


Kieran raised his brows.

  
  


“I’ll stop by the cave to get your bag tomorrow.” Lauren gestured to the room she had come from. She continued to dry the supplies with slow, mechanical motions. “You can leave the rest of your clothes outside the door. I’ll see to them.”

  
  


He sighed, passing her to get to the room. He stopped before reaching the door, and looked back. “I wish you’d say something. It would make me feel better if you tried to make me feel worse.”

  
  


“Your wayward tendencies aren’t exactly anything new. And-” She pulled the camera from the counter, rattling the film inside. “-we have what we need. So forgive me, but I’ll save my breath.”

  
  


“This isn’t me talking in tongues. I  _ know  _ that I shouldn’t be here.”

  
  


Lauren leaned into the counter, fiddling with the shutters and lens without meeting his eye. “Go to bed, Kieran.”

...

  
  


When Lauren caught her reflection in the windowpane, wringing cloth out over the sink, her expression was solemn.

  
  


Compared to the rag, his clothes really were disgusting. Perhaps it was partially Lauren’s fault, seeing how she had practically dragged the man through the copse.

  
  


It had been a little strange, seeing him unravel before her eyes. Kieran had always been stoic, constant in his ease. It wouldn’t be the last time.

  
  


_ Why did I bring him here? _

  
  


She didn’t dwell on it, wringing the cloth out with a new conviction. More pressing matters were at hand.

  
  


_ There’s still so much to be done. _

…

  
  
  


When he awoke the second time, it was slower, gradual. It came with a sort of curiosity, a reminder, a whisper into his ear.

  
  


_ Where are you? What are you doing? _

  
  


He rolled from his stomach to his back, pulling his hands from the tangled sheets and sitting up to grasp at something intangible. A few flyaway strands of his hair fell over his eyes, and he parted them hastily, taking in his surroundings.

  
  


The dawning realization that he was lying, half-dressed, in the apartment -  _ the bed -  _ of an assassin was an obscure relief. His standards really had sunken.

  
  


His eyes softened when he saw his ribbon lying on the bedside table. Unwillingly, he slid back into the comfort of the bed. He did not want to get up. He wanted to seek deceptive comfort within the feather down. To forget, but not quite.

  
  


But Kieran propped himself up on his good arm, the bruised shoulder aching and tented over by the white blankets. He pulled himself out of the sheets, moving to press his feet into the hardwood, digging his elbows into his sides as he propped himself. He was sturdier, steadier than he had been the night prior.

  
  


When he brought himself to take the leap and stand, he found that he could do so without a wave of vertigo or nausea. A relief.

  
  


The room did not hold many belongings, an empty slate. Even the desk was practically bare - something Kieran couldn’t fathom, that day, or any of the time back at the Academy or especially while in Preparatory.

  
  


It humored him, thinking back to how despite his better intentions, both he and his belongings had never gained an order about them. Maybe his head hadn’t quite recovered - he could practically hear himself chanting under his breath. 

  
  


_ Where boys become men, and the future...  _ It didn’t have the same hilarity as it did when Will was by his side.

  
  


The surface was clear, save for a few scraps of parchment and a stack of books. He brushed his thumb over the spines, savoring the peeling material. 

  
  


_ The Killing Joke.  _ He briefly wondered what her childhood was like.

  
  


_ The Man who Laughs.  _ He pondered how and when it went so wrong.

  
  


_ The Secret Garden.  _ The binding was familiar in his palms. He had owned a similar copy as a boy, surely now in the hands of another or papers burned to ash. A branded  _ First Edition  _ caught his attention underneath the preface. This copy was a rarity, older than him and more scarce in the way of collection. He didn’t bother trying to fathom the price of the tome, or how Lauren had managed to seize it.

  
  


A fountain pen lay askew next to the volumes, polished silver and inkwell full. Kieran pressed the pen into his pocket along with a folded piece of cardstock that had been weighed down by it. A chill ran over his shoulders. Even despite how the sun shining through the windows was somewhat muted through parted cotton curtains, there was a chronic nip to the city air still. 

  
  


A flash of blue caught his eye on the door frame as he moved to leave. A bathrobe, sewn of silk. He wasn’t done gambling. Shameless as he was, he tugged it from its hook and draped the robe over his shoulders. The sash fell from its catches on the loops, and both ends of it dropped to skim his ankles. Kieran let it hang loose, already savoring what reaction he might yield. Wherever Lauren was, he was goading her. But the apartment was not only soundless, it  _ felt _ quiet.

  
  


Short as the hallway was, each pace felt longer than actuality. He passed Lauren’s room, the bathroom, another door. He pressed his fingers to the handle. Locked.

  
  


He left it, but let it run fresh in his mind.

  
  


The entryway had a softer peace to it than the night prior. The light colors were more inviting than isolating. Even still, he felt out of place- a drop of ink on a blissfully clean piece of parchment, a bird placed into the wrong nest.

  
  


There was something dreamlike, maybe even humbling, about his predicament. One tangent or another had stolen the edge from his throat, the tension behind his eyes. The vice in his chest that had long since taken hold did not fall free - it wasn’t so kind. But it loosened. 

  
  


His eyes felt fresh, curious, casting over the empty shelves and walls. It was odd, he thought, how his partner didn’t have much to show in the way of belongings, of a life behind the curtains she had so artfully drawn.

  
  


Ones he had parted, a foundation that he’d put a fissure in - he’d cracked it, straight through the middle.

  
  


_ Why did I stay? _

  
  


It awoke something within him, a realization. 

  
  


Fear. 

  
  


Something he could welcome with open arms. He was no stranger to it, but it felt as though it had been a long time since he’d let himself fall victim to his own panic. In the wake of it,  _ the morning after, _ there was a sort of calm. The soothing smell of petrichor after a torrential rain.

  
  


A whisper of a smile flicked over his lips, one of mourning. It vanished in much the same way. Kieran hardly registered the feeling.

The couch sat as he had last seen it, the pillow and blanket strewn over it untouched. Like Lauren didn’t even sleep.

  
  


A pot of flowers sat where he had leaned and bled the night prior, the white blossoms innocently basking in the morning light. Daisies.

  
  


Rather than being clipped and doused in water, Kieran was surprised to see the stems rooted in soil within the vase. For a moment, he humored the idea of Lauren growing the blooms from seeds - tending to them at her own hand, watching as they sprouted and grew, as the petals came undone and became beautiful things.

  
  


Quickly, he found himself mesmerized by way the petals curled over themselves, how the shadows filled the spaces between each fold. However early in the morning they had been moved, the leaves and heads had already begun to lean towards the window, reaching for the sun.

  
  


Kieran pulled the pen and cardstock from his pocket, setting them decisively upon the countertop. 

  
  


The strokes of ink he produced were rather abstract, not as perfect as he could hope. 

With every minute that passed, he regained a dash of his old finesse, a bit more of the quiver leaving his hands. The first lines became more refined as layer upon layer of ink was caked over the basic shapes, shading and stippling to form each stem and petal. When his fingers moved in time with his breathing, and then his heartbeat, he melted a bit more into his work. That was what he deemed to be home.

  
  


He tore from his trance as the door to the flat opened. Lauren parted it only halfway, sliding through before shutting it gently on its hinges. A gust of cold air entered with her, huffing over the room. 

  
  


Kieran raised his arms, welcoming her in some grandiose gesture both uncalled for and unwise.

  
  


_ “HONEY!”  _ he crooned, a grin on his face that was sombered as his temple began to pound. His next words were more restrained, as he saved his breath. “ _ You’re home!” _

  
  


Lauren’s eyes roved over him as though she’d forgotten about her visitor. A quiet conviction that made Kieran fold in on himself a bit, and almost wonder if he himself had intruded. She adjusted the duffel hanging off her shoulder. “You’re up early.”

  
  


He stood from the table, treading with soft footsteps to where she stood. He crossed his arms, still cold. “Not as early as you, apparently.” 

  
  


“Did some damage control at the inn.” She pressed the bag into his arms. “No news, and that’s good news. There was one man looking for a blond, rail-thin male named Third?”

  
  


He considered it for a moment, coming to no conclusions. “Right and wrong. Yes, but no.”

  
  


“I’ll take your word for it.” She slid her coat off and kicked her boots to the entrance mat. Moving to the icebox, she pulled out a carton of blueberries. “You didn’t raid my pantry while I was gone. I can’t say the same for my closet, but color me surprised anyhow.”

  
  


“If I didn’t feel like I’ve been pumped full of acid, that would be tempting. And no, I have more sense than to raid your closet. _ ” _ Kieran placed the bag on the table, shuffling through. The cloth still carried such a familiar smell, the metallic tinge of wet cavern rock mingling with petrichor. His fingers brushed something new. He pinched a glossy paper, tucked behind folds of the canvas. Intentional as it seemed, he wouldn’t give Lauren the pleasure of a reaction. “Thanks.”

  
  


It was weighted, gratitude for more than a bag. Lauren popped one of the berries into her mouth. “Don’t mention it. Any mishaps, issues, newfound medical trauma?”

  
  


“I’m clear - surprisingly.” He pulled the robe’s sleeve up to his elbow, and held his forearm out to Lauren, running his finger down the sutures. His skin was still red around the floss, a new dappling of greys and blues posing as monuments to the needle’s bite. “They still hurt a bit, of course. But I know damn well that it could’ve been a lot worse.”

  
  


She nodded. Another fog of silence lingered as she peered over to the table, where Kieran had retaken his place. “Paperwork already, subordinate?”

  
  


“Ah…” He nudged the papers closer to himself. “No.”

  
  


“Oh! Are those…” Her eyes flicked up to the vase across from him. “Those are the daisies.”

  
  


“Mhm.” Kieran pulled his pen back into his grasp, began to shade the ghosts of the petals absentmindedly.

  
  


Lauren sat next to him, setting herself in the chair to his side. She leaned over, peering at the paper. “So you’re an artist, then.”

  
  


“No. I’m a police officer.” His heart wasn’t in it, and his breath trailed off as he squinted at the vase, watching how the shadows fell against each petal, how they ensconced the neck of the ceramic. 

  
  


“It looks-” She smiled. “It looks like I could pluck them right off of the paper.”

  
  


Kieran creased the paper’s edge, opting not to sign the sketch. “Perspective and observation. Seeing what’s under your nose for what it is, rather than what you presume it to be. And a hell of a lot of practice.”

  
  


“The shadows…”

  
  


“I’ll sometimes play with them, mess with the focal point. But then I lose a sort of… candidness? You can’t create it.”

  
  


Their gazes deflected from each other, hers landing on the paper and his on the daisies.

  
  


It seemed they both had surprises.

  
  


Kieran slid his chair out, gripping the duffel. As he returned to the room where he had slept, he peeked back to see Lauren still studying the drawing.

  
  


Her dress was spread out over her lap, simpler than the one from the night before. Off-white cotton that fell to her forearms and a bit below her knees. With her hair down, no longer artfully curled or tied, and her bare feet still silently tapping against the floor, she seemed innocent. Rather human.

  
  


Her trance was broken as he returned. “That’s not your regular uniform.”

  
  


It wasn’t - the fabric was black in place of blue, straighter and tighter. Rather than encouraging movement, it urged the wearer to be somber, to be still. A great contrast from his normal attire. Kieran said as much. “It’s Harvey’s funeral today.”

  
  


She nodded, understanding. “There has to be something running through your head.”

  
  


“Nothing I can articulate.” He smiled. “I was devastated, for a minute. But then I woke up.”

  
  


Once he was out on the misty streets, his pace quickened, only slowing when he reached the winding paths of the park, all still empty amidst the trees in the early morning hours. Kieran slid his fingers through the zipper of the duffel. 

  
  


He proceeded to fish out a photograph.

  
  


A car. Two men, one he knew, the other a shadow. Something inside him knotted.

  
  


He rubbed his thumb over the back, instantly noting the familiar itch of ink. He flipped the picture over.

  
  


The park’s silence was laced with the continuous birdsong as he read:

  
  


_ This sounds unusually formal, but I don’t care to discuss this in person. Better to deliver a note and appear like an oblivious schoolgirl than put myself through whatever didactic bullshit you’ll have to spout. Don’t bother lending me your thoughts later. I don’t care.  _

  
  


_ Tonight, or I expect- last night, you went wayward. Without telling me, you put the both of us at risk. _

  
  


_ So, I suppose in some twisted way, that makes us even. _

  
  


_ If not, I’m still leveling the ground. I’ve gleaned what I can from this, and maybe I’m making a grave mistake. But as always, it’s deliberate. You, and all we’ve done, is my calculated risk. _

  
  


_ Look away, have your fill. But if I hear of this, know that I might have to kill you. _

  
  


_ Am I lying, White? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all knew that the needle was too long...
> 
> In light of viewing the verbose nightmare that was my last AN, I'll keep this one short. I've been looking forward to this chapter- for a long time. I was surprised at how much I poured into it, development-wise. Especially Kieran. A pleasure for me to write, and I hope for you to read!
> 
> And how perfect, publishing the infamous "Humble Human" on the six-month mark of this fic? Time really does fly, doesn't it? All I really have to say is thank you. Also, I've begun some minor edits on the first few chapters, namely 1 through 4. Nothing beyond adjusting a few of the more awkward sentences- sharpening the hook, if I may. Thanks for understanding :>
> 
> So this is it! The last moments of the calm before... you know. And if you're reading this, you definitely know.
> 
> <3


	18. Cogito Ergo Sum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re living in a time and place when one person can render a whole force inadequate. What have we been _doing?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: I think, therefore I am)_

_ He bruises, and he bruises, and he bruises. And then these bruises are so mercilessly pressed. _

  
  


_ He’s so tired of the guilt. _

  
  


Kieran took care to arrive at the cemetery minutes before the hearse. His bag was left nestled in the brush a few blocks further, forgotten. The photo sat in the velvet lining of his coat, pressed hard against his chest.

  
  


It burned into his skin, the film branding each breath, each thought. 

  
  


He ignored it. Or he tried to.

  
  


The sky was grey in the midst of the hazed midwinter, as was to be expected - but it was clear, covered by singular boggedness rather than the ripples of them, distracting in the way they dotted his view with silken rivulets. It was stifling all the same, even more so than his uniform, though no candle could be held to the occasion itself. Kieran steadied his posture, a statue on the pavement walk. In a manner almost ritualistic, he tilted his chin up, trained his eyes far ahead. He steeled himself to grieve for a man that he didn’t know.

  
  


Kym and Will weren’t far behind him. They passed through the cemetery gates with Lila and Lukas in their wake, the former already armed with a kerchief and the latter’s gaze trailed in the grass with a jaded focus. The officer and secretary traded him a nod, then continued down the walk to the newly gathering crowd a couple of plots down.

  
  


Kieran shifted to cross his arms, conceding as his forearm strained, and he drilled them to rest carefully on their better sides. He had vowed to take care, not to reopen wounds. With no lapse of time for recovery, he would not gain the comfort of salving the ocean in his head, the slash on his arm, or the stiffening nicks on his palms.

  
  


“Why, you’re even earlier than us early risers!” Kym’s enthusiasm was dulled. “How goes it?”

  
  


“It goes.” Kieran cleared his throat, and locked his jaw. 

  
  


“Does it?” Will asked.  _ “I swear.  _ Did you spend all night  _ thinking-” _

  
  


“I’m drained. Just drained.” He nodded in affirmation. “But that’s not fair for me to say.”

  
  


Kym slung her arm over Kieran’s shoulder. He winced as her fingers found purchase along bruises, still throbbing under layers of cotton.  _ “Drained _ isn’t really the word for it. _ ” _

…

  
  


The rest of the afternoon passed in a way somewhat akin to a fever dream.

  
  


_ He’s so tired of skating over the important pieces, his small salvations. _

  
  


They took their places alongside the casket. Angular cherrywood, carved with care that had long since grown cold. Kieran adjusted his grip on the handle. He straightened himself with the others, peering over Kym’s shoulder at his front. Will’s gaze followed, from his right. They all stood soundlessly, somber in ritual.

  
  


Chief Sinclair took his place at a makeshift podium. He stood so much taller than his peers, his subordinates and strangers alike.

  
  


_ Pay your dues,  _ he said.  _ Remember who had died. _

  
  


Kieran looked on, face wrought of iron.

  
  


_ Who had died? _

  
  


Harvey Wood. A spy, one who had doused his flames, brought cause for him to chase his tail fruitlessly for years.

  
  


Harvey, the officer. Wide-eyed, freckle-faced, always the last to find his way to the coffee press in the morning - simply because there was no rush. 

  
  


_ He’d been involved since day one.  _

  
  


Kieran had always admired him, in that sense. 

  
  


_ Thirty-two reports.  _

  
  


He was too young to die.

  
  


_ The papers had said he was twenty-six. _

  
  


A cry broke out from the front of the ocean of mourners. His grandfather.

  
  


That was what Harvey had left behind. A myriad of broken things.

  
  


That - the emptiness, the void - was to be his legacy.

  
  
  


It had happened under Kieran’s nose. None of the others would know for whom they were grieving. He had betrayed every person, cast aside each of their names. They were mourning the loss of a traitor. 

  
  


It made him feel so  _ damn helpless. _

  
  


He cringed under Will’s silent query, Lila’s bespectacled gaze, Kym’s worried eyes as he closed his own, swallowing back the lingering storm, what threatened to boil over within him.

  
  


Perhaps to others, it would appear to be grief. 

  
  


He was, after all, lamenting the loss of time, of tangible opportunity.

  
  


_ Harvey Wood.  _ In spite of it all, of the salted wounds and the broken lies, Kieran found himself hurting.

  
  


It was counterintuitive- he longed to be free from such circumstances. All of them. In that way, he was selfish. But he allowed another stake to be driven into his chest.

  
  


He would miss the man. It didn’t make Kieran hate him any less.

  
  


Upon placing the casket into the ground, the weight of the wood was replaced with one lighter. A few of the mourners made rounds with bouquets- white carnations and orchids, gladioli and gerberas. An aster was pressed into his palm, the alabaster petals small and delicate, threatening to break even against the feeble wind. It was a sad flower, a pretty one. He loosened his palms around it, parting his grasp and giving the stem room to bend and breathe.

  
  


The heels of his hands were dotted with blood. They stained his gloves in sickening little pinpricks. 

  
  


So much for  _ care. _

  
  


Kieran pulled the blossom towards himself, pressing his hands close to his chest. When he dropped the flower atop the casket, dead as the body within, he left nothing behind but a wary glance. 

  
  


The crimson had not ridden the fabric, would not spread like blotted ink upwards to kiss his fingertips or the bones of his wrists - but they were prominent still. He folded his palms, wringing his hands into fists, giving his peers the delusion of pure, untainted white. 

  
  


To the surging sea, he was irreproachable. To them, he was clean.

  
  


The crowd began to disperse. Kieran shoved his hands into his pockets, and began to ease himself from the slew of black. His haste was realized.

  
  


“Kieran, leaving so soon?” Kym lingered behind him, musing. “The service at the Woods’ house - it won’t be long.”

  
  


“I know. I know.” He tried to compose himself. “The timing is horrible. But I can’t.”

  
  


Will lingered a few steps ahead of Kym, the group of mourners edging further. They both wore looks of concern. 

  
  


Kieran’s mouth twitched, flickering like an old television, an image of a grimace, then a smile. “Go ahead. I already caught up to his family, offered my condolences.”

  
  


His friends, with knitted brows and indecisive postures, offered a nod in his direction, a flick of the wrist in farewell. Kym and Will left with the pack, eyes trained on each other in concern.

  
  


They really were better than him. It made Kieran feel sick.

  
  


The two of them disappeared, leaving Kieran alone within a garden of asters and stone.

  
  


There was something almost beautiful, about the decisive finality of the place.

  
  


Kieran took it in, that chronic feeling of both honey and tar sewn into his being. It lingered, mimicked his footsteps, nipped at his heels. It followed him past the cemetery gates and through another pair. Taller, more decisive, the harbinger of a sinister building carved in iron and stone.

  
  


For Kieran, planning, plotting- they had become as constant as breathing. Guiltily, his mind had been racing from the moment he’d lain eyes on _it,_ the first glimpse of an answer. The corners of the page pricked his chest as he leaned over a chair he had been ushered to. He was as welcome as he would allow himself to be.

  
  


_ I really am so selfish. _

  
  


He signed his name on a thick piece of paper set with uniform print, the nib of his pen faltering under the weight of his grasp.

  
  


_ Harry Anslow. _ A visit, seven-thirty p.m, the following night.

  
  


_ And so, it would end. _

  
  


Kieran supposed it would, so long as he could hope for such a conclusion. It was one that he did not deserve. 

  
  


_ He was so tired of the lies. _

  
  


He would do what was necessary to breathe. 

  
  


_ There’s still so much to be done. _

  
  


…

  
  


_ “Are you alright?” _

  
  


Their conversations now always spiraled back to a similar sentiment.

  
  


Kym snorted, her expectation fulfilled. “Of course! It’s the day, that’s all.”

  
  


She would have much preferred only to hear the protest of breaking snow, the scratch of pavement underneath her feet. Will noted her fleeting displeasure, but also the hollowness underneath.

  
  


_ I wonder if they realize it. That heroes die too. _

  
  


“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” His voice was scratchy, unintentionally used. He cursed himself. “What did you mean, then? About heroes, and… well.”

  
  


Kym’s face froze, but quickly melted. “Don’t worry about it. I was rambling.”

  
  


“It didn’t sound nonsensical to me.”

  
  


“I just…” She faltered. “How could something like this happen in a  _ police station?  _ We’re supposed to be- we’re supposed to be the infallible ones.”

  
  


“But we’re not.”

  
  


“We aren’t. I hate to say it, but could one of the watchmen have let the killer in? I don’t know if anyone is  _ that  _ stealthy.”

  
  


“Everyone’s alibis checked out. I don’t think the assassin needed any help to break in.”

  
  


“Okay, and that’s terrifying. We’re living in a time and place when one person can render a whole force inadequate. What have we been  _ doing?” _ She took a breath. “It’s embarrassing.”

  
  


“They have more spies than we do, Kym. And ours tend to end up dead faster.”

  
  


He got no response. “I didn’t realize you were so close to Harvey. I’m sorry.”

  
  


“Oh, it’s not that.” Kym shrugged. “He was just so  _ innocent.  _ This was undeserved.”

  
  


“At the very least, I’m relieved that they don’t suspect anyone from the office. It didn’t exactly look good that the three of us were there so early in the morning…”

  
  


“Did you mention I hugged you in your deposition?”

  
  


“Of course not.”

  
  


_ “Ah.”  _ Her curiosity turned to smugness, and her voice jumped an octave. “I’m almost disappointed. If you humiliated me, then I’d get to reciprocate it. Only now, I’d just seem  _ mean.” _

  
  


“Yeah?” Will smirked. “I’m so, so sorry that I deprived you of an opportunity to be mean to me.”

  
  


“An eye for an eye, Lieutenant.”

  
  


“I thought-” He looked down. “I didn’t think it was necessary to describe exactly how shocked you were. So no one knows how you fell into my arms.”

  
  


_ She did. And the blood- _

  
  


Kym shook her head, shaking the falling snow from her hair.

  
  


Will’s eyes had turned back to the streets. “I truly hope you know that I’m here for you, if you want to talk, or-”

  
  


Kym groaned.  _ “God,  _ you act like I fainted, or broke down sobbing. I know that this is normal for us. And what we do.”

  
  


“True. We signed up for this, didn’t we?” He spoke it more as a confirmation than a question. “Still. Remember that the department offers counseling, and-”

  
  


They spiraled back.

  
  


“I’m good.” Kym said it with conviction.

  
  


He did not relent. “Just know that it’s always a-”

  
  


“Hard pass.”

  
  


_ “Kym.  _ I’m just trying to help.”

  
  


“One more word out of you, and I absolutely will go to therapy.” She nodded. “Yeah! I’ll go, because  _ you _ are my stressor. My headache, too.”

  
  


His fleeting look of hope fell into disdain. His eyes narrowed. “You’re infuriating.  _ Absolutely infuriating.” _

  
  


“A menace?”

  
  


“To society.”

  
  


“My job is done, then.” Kym hummed, satisfied. “You don’t need to help me at every turn. I’m a big kid now. I don’t need a second mother.”

  
  


‘I’m not trying to act like a mother.”

  
  


“Is that so? Then-” She batted her finger against Will’s cheek. “You’re just so naturally  _ motherly!” _

  
  


He rolled his eyes, some of the tension in his shoulders dissipating.

  
  


“Let’s just forget this all ever happened then! We’ll say I fell on the ground.” Her face scrunched. “No, I fell into Kieran’s arms. He wouldn’t be such an  _ idiot...” _

  
  


But she’d noticed - Kieran was too busy being idiotic in his own right. That morning, and over the course of the days prior, he had steadily progressed from looking exhausted to practically phantasmic.

  
  


A burst of laughter escaped Will’s chest, uncharacteristically harsh. “Oh, I think he would be. Have you met the man?”

  
  


“No, he’d be positively  _ princelike.” _

  
  


He drew himself taller. Counterintuitively, it made him seem more childlike, with his wide eyes and roving words. “Kieran isn’t so much of a prince as he is a scoundrel, or a clown.”

  
  


“Fine. If you're so vehemently against it, then the ground it is!”

  
  


“Oh, you act like I  _ care.” _

  
  


Her gaze turned pointed. “You pretend you don’t, and it makes you look far more stupid.”

  
  


Will  _ did  _ care, a lot. He was supposed to.

  
  


Sometimes, he really did hate his job. “That was uncalled for!”

  
  


“Then let it go,  _ Williame!”  _ Kym raised her arms, kneading her hands into mocking fists. _ “Roll with the punches!” _

  
  


“Fine!” he spat.

  
  


“Wonderful.”

  
  


_ “Perfect.” _

...

  
  


The tower was quiet - that was a given, a postulate, a law. Maybe it  _ was _ a law, in the most literal sense - but the people who dwelled within its confines had long since been broken beyond caring.

  
  


There would always be an air of mourning, a melancholic harmony of leather sole against stone, of fingers brushing against metal bars. But no one would talk. Breaths were saved like pocket change, held in anticipation of an upset to come in one’s permanent monotony, one’s unambiguous Hell. 

  
  


Harry Anslow, having digressed to another spectre within the walls, another of the vermin, was no stranger to the incongruous song. He breathed it, lived it. His routine, if it had enough grace to be regarded as so, consisted of nothing more than pure existence. He’d avoid the wary gazes of his peers. They were all rendered useless, and considered themselves as such. The acknowledgement was a silent one, but tangible all the same.

  
  


They had been left to fester. The fifteenth floor was as much of a graveyard as any of the stone-ridden grounds nearby.

  
  


He declined in his corner of choice, drumming his fingers into the decaying grout between the stones, cursing his lack thereof.

  
  


“Harry Anslow.” One of the nameless figures, the guardian wraiths of the floor, had snuck up on him in his stupor. “You’ll have a visitor at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. A police officer wishes to speak with you.”

  
  


Without bothering to see if his statement had registered, he continued on his rounds, another stop on his course.

  
  


So it continued. Until it didn’t.

  
  


A new song began to whistle over the floor. It had been so long since there had been such a fissure in the routine, since a new noise had swept through the prisoners’ collective ear. They almost leaned into it, hands on bars growing tighter and eyelids flickering open. They listened to the song like it was that of a bird, some beautiful melody from a former time.

  
  


A decisive click of shoebridges. The lazy jangling of keys, metal teeth nudging each other in no certain routine. It registered as something of hope, like a windchime or the cheerful bite of winter bells, set around a shadow with a cloak and a hat.

  
  


_ Someone new. _

  
  


The weight of a hundred purple petals turned to ashes, crushed under the visitor’s boots. 

  
  


The metallic cantation continued, and it came to lull the people in their cages. The edge of the blade dulled.

  
  


It sharpened once more at the first discordant note, of the first discordant scream.

  
  


She’d come to burn them down.

  
  


So Anslow, and the others, found themselves on the precipice of something far worse than a nightmare.

  
  


The few guards that gathered, the moths with no lamp, were too disorganized, no match. The ones behind bars watched on haplessly as they were cut down, products of the reaper.

  
  


A rippling sound accompanied their footsteps, piercing through the cries, the threats.  _ The tower itself appeared to be bleeding. _

  
  


She made her way to his cell. The stem of a hyacinth lay tangled within the keys, a fleck of violet falling to the floor as she pressed one of them into the gate’s metal socket. 

  
  


The door to his cage fell open. He wished that it didn’t.

  
  


_ “You-  _ the Scythe sent you, didn’t they?” Anslow sputtered, a man at his Judgement, brought at the hand of an angel of Death.  _ “You’re here to take me back. To bring me home.” _

  
  


The figure’s stance shifted, head turning to glance out the metal bars of the cell. Its wide brim obstructed much of her face, other than a mouth set in a harsh line. Birdsong had taken the place of an alarm’s cry, and darkness had taken that of the light.

  
  


_ There was still time.  _

  
  


She sheathed her blade, taking a seat on the stone bench across from him, shifting her weight on her toes. The way she sat held the same eagerness of that of a child, anxious and eager. On the precipice of something undeniably good.

  
  


She tossed the hyacinth to her feet, tented her bloody fingers.

  
  


_ “You tell me.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say it with me, folks: LauREN-
> 
> I do hope that in the upcoming chapters, I can do our assassin justice.
> 
> A small offering. Happy Wednesday <3


	19. Veritatem Dilexi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emptiness of mind would be preferable. The dark did not scare Kieran. It would mean peace.
> 
> Instead of such a reprieve, he would find only a woman with a sword in her hand, severing the very thing that had threatened to make him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: I esteemed truth once)_

The day after, she made the papers. 

  
  


Those who opted to save them for a later time, who left the pages to flutter aimlessly on their doormats and front stoops, turned out to be the lucky ones.

  
  


Kym was one of them, not that she’d believe it. The news rested on her counter, untouched as she occasionally left it, whether for some unconscious reason or to defy that underlying suspicion in the back of her head, the impending notion that had so often come to fall under her fingers.

  
  


It was likely the former. She had long since learned time to be unforgiving, the world to move too fast. Better to not spin it on its axis by her own hand.

  
  


The morning radio, stuck on a loop of some brainless orchestral tune, was a welcome distraction, one she allowed herself to become entranced in. The smell of fresh coffee grounds, the tatters of flickering light were both small assurances that the day was young, that she could blink and nothing would pass her by. It was both a reprieve of power she could be grateful for and an assurance of control. She propped her elbows atop her counter, lamenting the lackluster warmth shining through her window. The winter snap for the year hadn’t quite broken yet.

  
  


The tatters of a melody she did not quite recognize found their home under her breath. She shifted her lips over the brim of her mug, brushing over a chip in the porcelain to take a sip. It was only then that she moved into her day’s work. 

  
  


Balancing the mug in her fingers, Kym swapped it between her hands as she shrugged her jacket over her shoulders. The blue was fresh and vivid, the cotton just pressed and still warm. She ordered her belongings on the counter - her gloves and badge fell with less than a care, but she pressed her gun to the soapstone with a sort of reverence, her fingertips lingering on the grip. Placing the newspaper within her lineup, she began to scan the page as she maneuvered to place her weapon on her hip.

  
  


The message it conveyed was first convoluted, letters spidering into paragraphs under a caption, clear as day.

  
  


She lunged back, pulling the paper with her. Her grip on her cup loosened.

  
  


Kym had always hated the dark hue of her kitchen counters. It turned out to be a damn good thing that their hue exactly matched that of the bitter liquid.

  
  


…

  
  


It was almost embarrassing, truly, how the monarchs received the news - statements printed without praise or criticism, pressed to delicate paper in decisive uniform type - in much the same way as the others, the common folk. They were below their leaders, quite literally, yet found themselves hunched over their own copies of the disaster almost before the royals found themselves with their own bad omens, ones that rose up from under their feet like the tides. 

  
  


At that point, it was more luck than anything that they had not yet drowned, even in spite of their means to keep afloat. 

  
  


There would always be some sort of bad news for Dakan Rhymsel to bear. No crowd would ever be satiated, no toil quelled, in the city or otherwise. They were stones on the advisor’s back, ones he carried as he stormed the Councillor’s hall. It was a periodical routine, but Phillip’s Right Hand would then be the harbinger of an occurrence far worse.

  
  


Rhymsel pressed past the doors, cufflinks sounding like gunshots against the wood before his fists, his typical sense of urgency heightened. They fell shut on their hinges behind him, uncharacteristically loud. A dusting of needles fell from the wreaths of pine and holly lining the rafters, the displays upset by his haste. 

  
  


_ “Your Majesties!” _

  
  


The King was seated at his throne, as to be expected, the Queen behind him. The advisors who flanked them bowed their heads in deference as Dakan stalked to the other end of the table, slamming a paper into the lacquered hardwood. It was still warm under his fingertips, fresh off the press and in the public’s eye. He did not bother to see if the ink, still glistening, had branded his palms. _ “The Purple Hyacinth has returned.” _

  
  


Philip sat taller, his face cast in shadow, set in color from the stained glass windows to his sides. He went rigid, but his voice betrayed no surprise. “When?”

  
  


“Last night.” Rhymel grimaced, his fingers creasing the print. “It’s already in the papers. Every Phantom Scythe member Lune exposed is dead. We’ve been cast back into the dark.”

  
  


Lizbeth stepped up to Rhymsel, eyes scanning the article. A hand fell to graze the table, the other rose to curl around the jewels resting on her neck, catching in the diamonds. “They were imprisoned in the tower. How brazen must the guards have been, or how precise she?”

  
  


“Every guard in her path was found, throat slit, dead long before morning. She must have gone straight for the prisoners.”

  
  


“Guards, leave us.” Philip pressed a hand to his temple, fingers tangling in his hair, brushing against the gold of his crown. “This is horrible. The people-”

  
  


“The people are  _ afraid.” _ Dakan held a hand out, mouth set for explanation, but he set his jaw. His cape shifted against his back as he took a breath, recounting his thoughts before fashioning words. “If we don’t bridle their fear, assure them, then there will inevitably be a response. We cannot count on Chief Sinclair to defuse every riot. The shock is more serious now, unfortunately.”

  
  


“What does this say about us? What does it convey?” The King found himself holding another copy of the page, pressed into his hands by one of his advisors, who left without a word. “The mere fact that she could break into the  _ Tower,  _ our most secure prison, with such ease...”

  
  


“It’s humiliating. They won’t hesitate to break into the castle, should the necessity arise. We look weak.” Lizbeth paced across the marble, turning from the two. Her dress lingered a pace behind, folded in like butterfly wings, weighed down by silk and brocade. She tilted her chin up, peering to the windows, the stirrings below. “And that is dangerous, Philip. You need to act.”

  
  


“I agree. The Leader didn’t send his most infamous assassin there for naught. It was a calculated risk, with the intent of sending a message.” Dakan eyed Lizbeth, her second shadow, straying from her wake.

  
  


“And to silence his pawns, before they could reveal anything more to the police,” Philip said. “They meant next to nothing to him.”

  
  


“Naturally.” Lizbeth stepped up to the throne. Her eyes, grey and hawkish, raked over the golden curls of the seat frame, the catches of sunlight and pockets of dusted bronze. “This is the same man who burnt an entire train station to the ground, just to kill one. He doesn’t care what the consequences are, so long as his actions pave the path to his objectives. Or to keep his secrets safe - which he did.”

  
  


“We’ve known that the Phantom Scythe is no longer dormant. It’s stirring.” Dakan pressed his fingers to his paper, smoothing the creases with taut fingers. His voice lowered, softening the words against his own good conscience. “The people fear another Allendale.”

  
  


“And how can we tell them not to be afraid?” The King already knew that to remedy the masses would be to pick up broken glass, to maneuver around and attempt to salvage what was already shattered. “Another disaster has always been inevitable, as long as the Phantom Scythe remains undefeated. The possibility is disturbingly large.”

  
  


“And it will be prevented.” Dakan clasped his hands. “We won’t lose another King at the Scythe’s hands, Philip. We can’t afford to.”

  
  


“The scales are not in our hands.”

  
  


_ “Then we seize them!” _

  
  


“It isn’t safe to initiate such change, not now.”

  
  


“You will keep this crown, and your life.” A light caught in the Advisor’s eyes. “I swore it to you on my own.”

  
  


The look that he and the Queen exchanged was similar to that of two soldiers entertaining the possibility of battle, a final farewell. Their enemy was indiscernible, concealed in the open morning light and layers of velvet and gold. “You have the sympathy of the people. They’ll fight for you against these monsters.”

  
  


“Rhymsel is right.” Lizbeth pressed her hands into her husband’s shoulders. “You’re popular, more than your father ever was. You can’t deny how different the situation is today.”

  
  


“I can’t claim responsibility for that. It’s thanks to you both.” He looked up to her, then to him. “I don’t know where I would be without you two. His death took a toll on us all.”

  
  


A toll it did. 

  
  


“Dakan, Lizbeth, what do you suggest I do?” The King asked, glancing from his advisor to his wife. “You’ve always been better with the people than me.”

  
  


Dakan nodded. “Like I said, the people need reassuring- an everyman, if you will. Now isn’t the time to be divisive. Make a public announcement, appeal to the masses.”

  
  


“Appeal has gotten us nowhere. Measures should be taken against these criminals. They deserve to be  _ hanged.”  _ There was a light scorn to the Queen’s voice, gentle barbs of memory. “But you abolished the death penalty. We need to establish a softer way to get the message across.”

  
  


Her words and tone were contrasted by the peaceful drumming of her fingers on his back, the calmer smile that spread across a harsh countenance.

  
  


He did not soften under her touch. “You’re both right. We must not show this fear. I will double the bounty on the Hyacinth’s head, and of anyone suspected of helping her.”

  
  
  


…

  
  


Kieran’s attention was only piqued by the force’s divergence from their regular path of patrol. They fell into line with the others, a sea of cloth and warmth and ease that ebbed and flowed, fluctuated. There was a certain air to the crowd, that sort of tension only tangible in the stark manner in which many stood, how they wound themselves tightly in packs. The more assured ones’ mouths ran at a low volume, ducking to speak to their companions. As a collective, they moved together with a premonition, or rather in the wake of one.

  
  


Kieran craned his head to find Kym, or Will - they walked on opposite sides of the cobblestone, heads trained down dutifully. The two had been avoiding each other all morning, and the rift between them only heightened his own unease.

  
  


He attempted to remedy it, matching his paces to Will’s as an increasing surge of people filled in the gaps of the street. Kieran nudged him. “Did I miss something? Or- ”

  
  


“We have a better view of the castle from here.” Will’s voice was unnervingly even.

  
  


_ “His Majesty’s  _ addressing the people. As to be expected, I guess.” Kym met the two in their space, the paper in her grasp still pleated and new. Her words were easy, but they caught in her throat, any ember of a joke dying on her tongue. “They’ll want to hear from him, surely. The P.H. is gonna do a number on us all, isn’t she?”

  
  


A beat.

  
  


_ “What?” _

  
  


Under her mask, her eyes creased in shock as Kieran’s own replicated them in confusion. “Oh my god. You didn’t see-”

  
  


_ “Show me.” _

  
  


Kym unfurled the newspaper, and raised the headline to eye level.

  
  


_ Every guard in her path- _

  
  


_ Our convicts- _

  
  


All dead.

  
  


And he had no say in the fact that everything would be different.

  
  


It hit him quickly, sent him silently reeling. A knife to the throat, a bullet to the brain.

  
  


_ Anslow. Blakesly. McTrevor. Colden. _

  
  


Kieran glanced at Kym, then to Will, almost in plea. But they averted their gazes, eyes trained down. While they had not accepted what had been done, it had registered. It had long since sunken in.

_ Just understand that I only kill people when I’m ordered, or when it’s the only solution. _

He had trusted her.

_ Despite what you may think, or even want, I have a code. _

And he had taken her words as they came, held them close to his chest.

_ I will not break it. Not for you, for this, for anything. _

How had he been so naive?

_ We burn together, don’t we? _

_ … _

  
  


From the moment the King appeared, flanked by his wife and son, the crowd was at his beck and call. When he raised his hand, desiring more, the crowd willingly provided. There was always more to give, they would find, when answers were scarce yet in high demand.

  
  


His voice was already hoarse, and his call sounded physically painful. But not a burden, never any doubt. The implications of such a thing would be severe, and he knew it.

  
  


“Last night, the Phantom Scythe orchestrated a massacre at the Tower - a terrible tragedy that weighs down on me, as it does you all, I’m sure. Dozens of guards and several prisoners were brutally murdered by one of the syndicate’s top assassins - the Purple Hyacinth.”

  
  


The people below had learned to forget that name, to no avail.

  
  


Philip quieted the murmurs. “Once again, it shames me to say that the flower of her namesake, the Aevasther’s hyacinth flowers - graceful, but poisonous to those who do them harm - have been tainted.”

  
  


Arthur glanced up to his father, his posture trained but the look in his eyes less so. This was not his first time above a crowd, nor the first time witnessing the toils his future would bring. It was often forgotten how young he was. The boy had practically grown up on violence. Although shielded, a prince, he had undeniably been baptized in the city’s blood. 

  
  


Each glance was a sentence in a wordless language, one learned by the family and spoken through their eyes. Philip assured Arthur, in their own dialect - the one thing that they alone shared. “This is a message from the Leader. We must not fall victim to this manipulation, this fear. We cannot be afraid.”

  
  


They couldn’t afford to know fear, much less show it.

  
  


He broke away from his family, closing the distance between him and his people, leaning over the palace balustrade. “Rest assured that measures will be taken to stop the Hyacinth in her course. I would advise you all to stay in the safety of your homes after dark, and to travel in pairs. Do not try and approach this criminal, under any circumstance. Call the police immediately. Their presence will be reinforced at night-”

  
  


The people in blue stood a bit taller. 

  
  


“-and the bounty on the assassin’s head will be raised to 25,000 pence. She awaits a life sentence in jail, as does any person suspected of helping her.”

  
  


One folded in on himself, he wilted.

  
  


Lizbeth took Philip’s hand. 

  
  


_ You’ve done well. _

  
  


He reciprocated the squeeze that she offered, invisible behind columns of marble and stone.

  
  


_ I pray that I have. _

  
  


The rings on her fingers, both the metal bands and bestudded gems, had grown cold. A storm was coming.

  
  


Arthur peeked out from behind his mother’s skirts, taking his place aside his parents.

  
  


They stood tall, even under the weight of their crowns.

  
  


…

Nature ran its course in perfect time, rain beginning to fall soon after the royals had closed themselves back into their gilded prison. 

The crowd dissipated as quickly as it had accumulated. In lieu of the impending downpour, it was only natural that people did not want to be so exposed, not in the wake of the night prior.

The group of officers in the middle of the street, marching in some undecided order, should have carried over a veil of ease. The murmurs, the bowed heads, the wide eyes - each signal, slight and sharp, assured them that it did nothing of the sort.

“The tower.” Kym dug her heels into the cobblestone, her footsteps heavy. “How could she have gotten in? Is anyone else able to wrap their minds around it?”

“It was a bloodbath,” Lukas said, shaking the rain from his coat. “You forget that she killed dozens of guards on her way up - not just Lune’s collars. The prisoners that she left untouched are scared to death. Naturally.”

“They’d be insane not to be. But are all of the people Lune exposes going to meet the same fate?”

Blood on his hands.

Kieran stopped in his path, the few coming up behind him in the more vacant street easing past. His boots scuffed against the road, the soles hissing in protest.

Will stopped in time with him, eyeing the precinct ahead. “Shift’s over, so-”

The words played softly on his lips.  _ “I’d like to go home, Lieutenant.” _

Kym cocked her head. “We could get coffee.”

A question, concealed.

“I’m going to turn down my sheets. I’ll be asleep before the sun even sets.” His face fell crooked, into a smile. He handed her back the newspaper. It was near translucent now, soaked by the increasingly torrential rain.

A nice enough sentiment, he thought. It was easy enough to lie when he himself wanted to believe the words just as much. 

Ever impassive, Kym entertained the idea. “Or so he says.”

“Come on. Have a little faith.”

His two friends then exchanged the glance that had become so signature, with the uneasy eyes and mouths locked shut with words left unspoken. 

They were worried for him. He didn’t deserve it. 

“I’ll be fine,” he confirmed.

And so he would slip, and he would fall.

Kieran broke off into a sprint as soon as they left his sight, weaving back the way they came, near setting the alleys and streets ablaze with the sound of his footfalls. He was soaked further by the falling rain, the rising puddles that lapped at his ankles with every step. He was drowning from both directions.

He tore his mask from his face, and it crumpled in on itself, more feeble than paper. Underneath where it had been adhered, his face flickered between every emotion that he had come to know - confusion, anger, abhorrence, far uglier things that beat against his chest like rioting prisoners to a cell, rabid animals to a cage - ones that he could not articulate, much less name. If he did ever find names so suiting on his lips-

-then he would cock his gun, and fire the  _ coup de gr _ _ âce _ himself.

His ally, if he could even label her as so, had deserted him. There was no doubt about it - this was her nature, and his, too. 

Because they were both suffocating. They had always been bound to break.

Even so, Kieran White fell back into his old pattern. He found himself running back.

He was ready to fight. But the gun that he held was empty, his voice shot. He wondered, only then, if he was finally coming to learn what it was like to run on fumes and only fumes - and to do it as though he was on a good night’s rest. He reached into his core, pleaded with his mind for something of substance, beyond the vengeance, something  _ more- _

He was rewarded with nothing. The battle had already been lost. 

He was absolutely and completely bereft. 

His toe caught on a knot of bramble. He was saved only by the way his leg quickly planted itself a pace ahead and his hand grasped for a branch, leaving him peering to the dirt, the decaying leaves and fronds, threatening to fall into the forest bed. These were the moments he could be grateful for, the times when his body would move faster than his head. 

Emptiness of mind would be preferable. The dark did not scare Kieran. It would mean peace.

Instead of such a reprieve, he would find only a woman with a sword in her hand, severing the very thing that had threatened to make him whole.

Once again, he had been robbed of time - time for retribution, for convalescence, for a gift as simple as thought. All he could do was run. So he took off again, his laces flicking in warning against his pumping legs.

This was to be his funeral. This was his pyre. He would burn here, understandably so.

He just didn’t think that he would be burning alone. 

But the words passed between them had gone up in plumes of smoke, and he could do nothing more than kneel and sift through the ashes.

Kieran gasped as his bare hands pressed into frozen iron, wound into a cave wall and set in stone jaws. They had taken on a sense of familiarity, it seemed, his palms molding to the metal in an embrace. A distorted sense of home.

It groaned in protest as he pressed it open, locking it back into place behind him, water dripping from the tails of his jacket onto the rocks. Kieran tore the soaking mess from his shoulders, folding it over his arm and letting it drop to the floor. 

The one he had come to know, he had overestimated. Or, rather, he had underestimated the one he did not know at all.

And this stranger stood at the apex of a hurricane, surrounded by the wreckage of countless papers littered across the stone floor. Kieran stepped over them, reckless, disregarding the prints’ sounds of protest underneath his boots. He took his place aside Lauren at their painting, the white and black and aimless tangles of red. Her gaze was trained on it, lashes flickering as she delved deeper into the puzzle that Kieran could not see.

_ Look at me.  _

He needed her to acknowledge him. There was no desire for camaraderie underneath, nor for faith. He needed her to understand that he was her partner, her flaw and her advantage, the other side to their same rusted coin. A dead man walking.

_ Look at me. _

He pleaded, wordlessly. Was his grounding a lie, this fragile partnership of no consequence?

_ Look at me. _

Maybe he did speak, his panic vocalized - because he found his mouth agape, his breath hitching, shifting from anonymity to ragged identity. She tilted her chin, eyes falling onto him.

Dull, tarnished gold, extinguished flames. Glacial. Lifeless.

How much would he have given, would he have lost, to never fall victim to that gaze again?

It was the one thing, he thought, that he had never come to deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _All rise, for the dead man walki-_
> 
> Hah. Truthfully, I didn't realize how awful these cliffhangers were until I started writing them. But... _twenty_ has such a nice ring to it, don't you think?
> 
> Soon. 
> 
> <3


	20. Vociferor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But can’t you see? Can’t you feel it, that you’re drowning too?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: shout)_
> 
> ...
> 
> I don't think there's really any need for a warning here, as I'm sure you guys have your suspicions as to what's coming. And... Uhm, I'll let you guys take your look.
> 
> I also don't think that this really needs to be said, as you are all angels, but if I see romanticization/trivialization of this anywhere you will be b o n k e d. 
> 
> We're all in this community together. I know I needn't worry about that.  
> I'll be the first to admit this is slightly chaotic. But I'm fairly certain I was able to capture what I was aiming to, so I'm satisfied.
> 
> Have "fun"  
> <3

Kieran White had made many mistakes. 

  
  


His first had long since come and gone, whether in blood or stone. He accumulated them, collected them like a flush bouquet between his hands. It was not novel for him to stumble. His arrival marked the dawn of another, the next wrong thing.

  
  


The circumstance, loath as he was to admit, was also an old one. They had gone through this before, and it had arisen in the weeks since. Him, and her, they were in the rain again - eyes never meeting, him derelict and her dying. 

  
  


Then, he had challenged, had dared, had egged her on.

  
  


Now, he was left to his own, faring against the shock. He wanted to know _why._

  
  


“You know,” he croaked, shocking himself at his gall, “It’s really very anticlimactic for you to say nothing to me.”

  
  


He was met with precisely that: silence, nothing beyond the torrential roar and hiss of the storm from beyond the rocks. The scents of lye and old kerosene blended into a petrichor, braided and bound in a way that should have been almost intimate to him then. They were once comforts, a strange lure that he’d willingly tangled himself in. Now they assaulted his senses, made their home in his chest. 

  
  


No, he was not welcome. But he was expected.

  
  


Lauren again wore white, a similar hue to the day prior. Her blouse was loose and untouched by the rain. When she leaned forward, brushing a paragraph on the board that hung before her eyes, it held her back. The sleeves clasped tighter to their tapers at her wrists. The silken collar that encircled her throat became a vice. The shade made her out to be more of a ghost than anything angelic, anything whole. He couldn’t help but find it rather ironic, that she was the one who looked to be falling to pieces.

  
  


_What an awful, awful woman she must be,_ he thought, to lose herself in print and papers after playing reaper, after making rubble out of their monuments. She had driven them into the ground, and he had been none the wiser.

  
  


He knew this now.

  
  


Kieran brushed back hair from where it had plastered to his forehead, his hands begging for a distraction in the unruly tangles. Raindrops pressed over his fingers and began to roll faster he grabbed a fistful, pulling it from its confines. It made him look far worse, and he was back where he had begun. _Let her see how he felt._

  
  


He crossed his arms, sloped his tired shoulders. “I’m not looking for an alibi from you. I need answers. That’s all I’ve ever needed-”

  
  


He stopped himself.

  
  


Lauren spoke before he could find a tangent to catch. “I’m not going to sling excuses.”

  
  


Her attention flicked upwards, to the highest pins. “I know what you think of me now, and I don’t really care.”

  
  


_She did not care._

  
  


The rumors, the news, the word of mouth and what he had seen firsthand - they had never been more vivid.

  
  


Kieran flinched, let his eyes flutter shut. They were beyond reparations. Any word in that sense would be in vain and pass, water falling through a sieve. But he collected himself, and spoke tartly. “How long have you known? We made a _deal-”_

  
  


_“The deal still stands, doesn’t it?”_ She canted her head, narrowed her eyes. They were sharp even in her deterioration; two stars at twilight, or twin embers burning in Hell.

  
  


When he said nothing, she edged away from their work. She circled further from him like some grounded vulture, ready to tear him into ribbons.

  
  


So he pulled himself up. “But I was left in the dark, as always.”

  
  


“I don’t stick my neck into your business.”

  
  


He sneered, pressed himself closer to her. “My business is futile to you.”

  
  


“Don’t put words in my mouth-”

  
  


“I haven’t found myself getting any, edgewise. You’re only reaping what you’ve sown.” A sealed file lay on the surface of her desk. Caustic as it was, it seemed to be the one surface that still held some sense of order. He knocked an inkwell askew as he lunged for the envelope, disturbing the illusion. “So what’ll it be? What’s my explanation?”

  
  


She tossed her head back, jaw rippling as she snarled. “Why are you so _surprised-”_

  
  


“I really shouldn’t be.” He put the metal to the adhesive. The paper tore as he passed it through carelessly, leaving the seal frayed and curled. The print inside was old, a backup copy of one of their cryptic gibes aimed at the Precinct from some night before, now lifeless in disuse. “I found myself expecting more. Well.”

  
  


He pressed the paper and tool back to the surface. He resisted the urge to toss the bottle to the ground, to shatter it and watch the pigment bleed out onto the mess below like a plague. Instead he dropped his face into his palms, kneaded it to hold a broken smile. “What a monumentally stupid mistake.”

  
  


It was.

  
  


“And now have the audacity to try and _justify-_ you’ve gone and ruined this.” He waved frantically to the two of them, and the growing rift between. “You truly have.”

  
  


“Someone was bound to, and you wouldn’t dare.” It came out as an accusation, his unwillingness to tend to broken things. “This is my job, Kieran, I can’t just up and defect.”

  
  


“Oh, knowing you, I’m sure you would-”

  
  


_“I won’t.”_ Her words were strangled, bound by something he didn’t understand.

  
  


“Another tally on the docket, then.” On hers, and on his. “You should be so proud.” 

  
  


His voice was nothing more than ash and sediment, a rattle from his chest he couldn’t bring himself to support or tend to. “So- what now, then? What’s our next step?”

  
  


“We move forward.”

  
  


_“Move forward.”_ He bit back a laugh, sardonic. “You don’t just move on from something like this!”

  
  


“It’s a matter of experience.You’re not taking anything into consideration.”

  
  


He pressed the small of his back to the desk’s corner, worrying divots with his thumb against the wooden grain. _“Don’t scold me, don’t think me a child_ when I’m the only one that seems to be trying to keep us afloat.”

  
  


“We’re breathing, aren’t we?”

  
  


_But can’t you see? Can’t you feel it, that you’re drowning too?_

  
  


“You-” He seethed. _“You’re disgusting._ This isn’t what we settled for, we don’t bury the shoulders of others to give ourselves something to stand on!”

  
  


“I didn’t see you complaining before. You only opened your mouth after I did something that you should’ve expected. I’m predictable, Officer, whether you knew about last night or not.” 

  
  


“My god.” He bit his tongue. “Where is… _your humanity? Would you care to show me?”_

  
  


He kicked one of the copious papers in the litter, and it tore in protest under his boots. Another casualty, however small, another thorn in his conscience. “Because I sure as hell can’t find it. And believe me, I’ve looked.”

  
  


He found himself pleading. “Talk to me, Lauren.”

  
  


“Oh, stop with that-” Her laugh hardly passed her teeth. “You don’t want to hear anything from me. I’m not going to waste my breath.”

  
  


“So I get nothing? Then tell me a lie.”

  
  


It shocked him as much as her. But he was desperate- he’d eat from the poisoned tree, drink from the tainted well. He would get no solution without sustenance, no matter how broken. She had spent so long dancing around him, quiet on her toes.

  
  


She glanced at him, a lash of a whip that left him keeling. He grounded himself. “Look me in the eyes, and tell me what this is. Because it’s not a partnership, it’s a massacre.”

  
  


A massacre, in every sense of the word - of the people, and of what the two of them had convinced themselves to be.

  
  


“I call it my means to an end. Conviction. We’re in this for different reasons, aren’t we?” She shifted to face him, finally. She was stretched thin, and so she was stronger. The lurid paleness that had leached into her face and the shadows that ringed her eyes like bruises became her mask, her war paint. In her most fragile state, she became her most terrifying. 

  
  


And she would wield it, just as well as any weapon in her arsenal. 

  
  


“I’m so - _so_ _sick -_ of you making this personal!” He straightened his back as he struggled to stand. “Everything we’ve made! Everything that we had, that _you needed, is go-”_

  
  


His fingers brushed the underside of the wood, found purchase in the lock and creases of the cabinet beneath. It was empty now, the patched hat a ghost. The papers on the floor whispered with a new creed, a living graveyard of words.

  
  


He did have something of his own, what she had given him. 

  
  


And he had taken it like a fool.

  
  


“That _goddamn_ picture.” Her gesture of amity, of trust. “It was a sham. You left me the dregs.”

  
  


And in doing so, she had gotten what she had yearned for.

  
  


Any trace of poise dripped from his face like wax from a candle, blood let from a wound. He hated what he found underneath.

  
  


“I’d really like to know- did you speak to Anslow, before you slit his throat? Did you find your answers, did you tie your stray ends?” His knuckles fell to the desk, rapping, bone on wood. It scared him, truly, the way his voice fell into a roar. _“Are you satisfied?”_

  
  


She seemed to consider it, taking pause as his last word reverberated off the rocks.

  
  


_“No.”_

  
  


It was the one thing, he thought, that she sounded unsure of.

  
  


He repeated her word, a bird in her snare. _“No?”_

  
  


“It’s horrifying, honestly, that-” Her breath hitched, lips playing at a smile. “- you think that I could ever find peace.”

  
  


And he knew that he had lost her.

“Peace-- _Peace?”_ Kieran stepped back, incredulous. “People are dead, because of-”

  
  


Because of him, because of them. He was not so callow as to forget that together they were shackled at the wrist, and she had chosen to bring him down with her.

  
  


Yet, she had the nerve to suggest that they were climbing.

  
  


He knew this, and fell further. “What were you planning, to create _fucking finger paintings from the blood on your hands? How can you even live-”_

  
  


“With what I’ve done? With their last expressions burned into the back of my head, their last words left unsaid, after watching the last lick of their blood ebb from their bodies? I’ve heard it all, Kieran.” She plucked a pin from the cork, scrutinizing its former position. Indecisive, she placed the needle back amidst the strings. “This is out of necessity.”

  
  


“You and your _motivations.”_ He cut off softly. “Your job, it’s- I know. But you, you _think_ differently than the rest of them.”

  
  


_You’re probing what you don’t understand._

  
  


He raised a finger in the air, ramrod straight, let it fall towards his target. “This is personal.”

  
  


His palm pressed into the empty chest like some sacred text, the key socket burning a hole in his skin. There was no more volition to defend, nothing to protect.

  
  


So he staked a claim in the woods he had lost himself in, one that he would die for.

  
  


“This- this is about _Dylan.”_

  
  


And it soon became clear that the next word he said would become another in his elegy, scribed into the darkening planes of Lauren’s face.

  
  


He turned, he avoided the collision, a moth from a flame. His hands found their home in the desk’s edges, fingers pressed to wear. _“He’s dead, and-”_

  
  


He should have been grateful that his breath severed clean.

  
  


No footsteps came before the screech of wood on rock, as the chair behind him caught his knees, pressed forward. His spine snapped back, pressed flush against the backboard with no rebound. Her arm was but a flicker in his periphery, a viper, the crook of her arm catching around the swell of his throat. She did not push down, but caged him in warning, in anticipation. 

  
  


His wrists were caught between the rungs of the chair from behind and her own ribs. Two bindings, he could gather - one living, one dead. He found himself configured to her liking, a puppet on strings of her own terms or clay in her hands. How easy it would be for him to bend into her grip, to let her mold him into the jaded automaton she expected. 

  
  


He was just like the rest of them, another victim of _Lune,_ the two nightfolk halved and broken. Now, there was no rope to bind him, no words left unsaid. 

  
  


Even still: nothing had changed. 

  
  


The jag of her chin dug into his shoulder as she held him tighter.

  
  


_“Lauren,”_ He whispered, voice near inaudible. _“Do not touch me.”_

  
  


She tipped his jaw up, locking her fingers around it like he was her pet, or vermin in need of muzzling. Kieran was left to writhe in her hold, barely finding purchase on the cave floor by the soles of his boots.

  
  


_“What have you been hiding from me, bastard?”_

  
  


“What? You’re _insane-”_ Her arm tensed around his pulse. When it loosened, he was unsure as to if he should attempt to grasp at air like a man underwater, because he was drowning and she was the one watching him die.

  
  


“Do you know what happens to people who _lie?”_

  
  


_Somebody gets hurt._

  
  


“It’s been a while, since someone’s been stupid enough to lie to me. I don’t need your ability to see what’s in front of my face.” She sounded tense yet too calm, a paradox in and of herself. A stream of her hair fell over the crook of his neck, red against white cotton, a bad omen. “The last one cut his own hand off - right at the wrist, through the bone. I made him do it, and I watched. Must’ve hurt like hell. That’s why we have two, though, isn’t it?” 

  
  


She tightened over his wrists, shifting to raise his gun. _When did she take his gun-_

  
  


The muzzle ghosted a path across his temple, the ridge of his cheek. “It really is beautiful. Better than my sword, but far too loud. We’re alone, and far enough away that I could get away with something even more horrible, I’d think. But-”

  
  


She tossed it, and it might as well have been his own bones grating across the rocks. The pistol halted, helpless and bathed in lowlight. 

  
  


A moment passed, and Kieran’s hand was freed- but he could not ease the shock, or allow it to do anything but hover. Then he was bound again. The pallid tint of her wrist fell free from her sleeve as she flicked it back, lunging for the letter opener on the tabletop.

  
  


The pearlescent shine in his periphery spoke volumes, taught him what he needed to know. Rather than any knife in her collection, she’d taken something of his own, had rendered it another prop in their game.

  
  


“That’s not how to make someone talk.”

  
  


The blade’s belly passed over his chin, his collar. It made its home over his heart, poised and pointed and shaking in reflection of himself. She traced a circle, a crooked _‘o’,_ taunting and catching in the fabric of his shirt.

  
  


He knew then that this was not in mockery or subtle threat - this was the way a hunter vied for her quarry, a predator for her prey.

  
  


He was the animal, and he had found himself in her trap. Surely, he’d gnaw his own leg off to escape it, would become something feral if it meant he’d get out.

  
  


He would not try to move. He found himself to be his own prison, with less than enough will to fight back.

  
  


At his hesitation, Lauren cocked his head back further, pressed his spine taut against the wood. “Were you sent by someone? I cover my tracks-” 

  
  


So she thought him a stranger.

  
  


He whipped his head to the side, and she dug into his cheek in protest. “-stop moving. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve scrubbed someone from under my fingernails, but I’d rather it not be you. Stubborn.”

  
  


Her voice was different, long and dripping, the static whisper of a cello string at the end of some symphony he hadn’t wanted to hear. This is what he missed, he thought, when he insisted on extending his own throat time and time again. He had missed the assassin herself, and she had somehow let it be so.

  
  


This wasn’t who he had bled with.

  
  


If any affliction fell across his face, she would have seen it for herself. He was completely exposed, eyes on hers and face in her hand.

  
  


He felt her contort into something manic. “You understand well enough. I want you to say his name for me. Say it again.”

  
  


She made it personal.

  
  


_A personal affair- you shove it down, you stifle it like a tempered flame._

  
  


What hurt the most was that he had no means to grovel, or his own explanation, his own _why._

  
  


_“Say it-”_

  
  


Whether from experience or intuition, or a medium between, she understood.

  
  


“You- you don’t know.” Her grip loosened, her breath drew closer. Kieran, for a moment, thought her forehead would come to rest on his shoulder, but that breadth was never closed. She let out a hopeless little gasp, something like a laugh that he was sure branded him like an old scar. _“You really don’t know.”_

  
  


He didn’t. He could not provide her with anything more than a challenge, a first name.

  
  


_“Shit.”_ She exhaled again, a sharp gust on his back that sent him further in on himself. “Sure.”

  
  


As she collected herself, her pulse falling, his own did the same. The metal she held fell to rest on his skin, no longer a conscious threat. It drew closer as she drifted, her words further away.

  
  


She was all breath, no substance. “You knew who I was when we made our deal. Don’t look for what isn’t here.”

  
  


He hadn’t been looking, and it would have been an impossibility. He had seen the world with her fingers over his eyes.

  
  


“And if people have to _hurt-”_ Her voice halted, all brittle, breakable if not broken. The blade flickered. _“Who am I to say I regret it?”_

  
  


_“I can smile, I can laugh-”_ she spat, though she did neither. _“What makes you think I wouldn’t, with my fingers around your throat, looking on as the light left your eyes? That you’re any different from the rest of them?”_

  
  


“I am who I am, _White._ I am the Purple Hyacinth, and I won’t stop myself for your sake.” She tapped the blade against him. “Why are you so brave as to think that I care what comes of you?”

  
  


_A coward._

  
  


“You know- I would do it all over again!” Her voice rose, hysterical. “I’ve come this far, at the cost of everything I knew- because you’re right, I’m disgusting! _I am obsessed!_ **And I have** ** _always_** **been like this!”**

  
  


Her breath was a sort of toxin on his skin, one that left him both reeling forward into the metal and pushing back. His heart understood, rolling against his chest in an unrelenting cadence. 

  
  


He wanted it to stop. He wanted the cogs and gears to stop turning, to remove himself from this machine. Even the best parts of him merely looked on and would do so until she inevitably made peace with the ugly blade, until she would furrow it between his ribs and set him free.

  
  


But she lied. He knew it. He flinched against her words. He dared to move. It was a reaction he knew would cost him one of her own. Because they were their own checks and balances, the pendulum that stopped swinging in some medium between wrath and wreckage.

  
  


So - Kieran’s waiting came to an end. In part. 

  
  


In a vile sense, it was kinder. In another, it was binding, it was cruel.

Perhaps it was her blade that fell or his chest that rose-

  
  


But she made her mark. A flick of the wrist, a flash of crimson.

  
  


She’d finally broken him.

  
  


A hair’s breadth deep, a palm’s length long. Just a scratch.

  
  


The gasp that escaped him almost mimicked something of a death rattle, or a sigh of relief. He couldn’t tell.

  
  


For a moment, everything came to a halt.

  
  


Then the blade was dropped to his lap, the pressure from his shoulders alleviated. Kieran scrambled from his position, the metal falling haplessly to the floor. His chair followed, tilting back and meeting the same fate - louder, more decisive, the final notion of the judge’s gavel. He leaned into the desk’s hardwood corners, breathing in, breathing out, reaching up to cast the illusion of sutures with his fingers where she’d cut him open - skin on skin on bone. He heard something frantic from behind, a few stray steps, but he did not turn to look.

  
  


First, he was nothing but himself, a paracosm. Even then not by far.

  
  


Then she spoke.

  
  


“I’m not going to chase a lost cause.”

  
  


He did not yet look back, wearing the wood into his stomach as he leaned into his anchor, rendering himself breathless as it pressed into his lungs. _“How- how dare you-”_

  
  


“See how far you get, trying to - _to coddle yourself_ with a vendetta you aren’t willing to feed.” She had gusted herself a ring in the fog, no longer sounding so adrift. “You won’t find that comfort here with me.”

  
  


“I-”

  
  


Her tone went sharp, a half step from null towards triumph. “What if I told you what I knew? Would you drop this, if I gave up Anslow’s last words?”

  
  


He turned, met her gaze as though he’d just been slapped clean across the face.

  
  


Her expression tightened. She was winning. “I wouldn’t lie to you. You know that.”

  
  


He did.

  
  


In ruin she extended a hand, made an offer. _Sink down to me._

  
  


Wide-eyed, tight-lipped, he hesitated, trading a response for the temporary bliss, the high of solitude.

  
  


A beat passed. One too long.

  
  


Her lips curled up, rueful and wolfish, victorious in her hunt. “Right.”

  
  


She was. 

  
  


_“And.”_ She shuddered. “You knew what could come of this partnership. You forget yourself. That you’re a bit of a monster, too.”

  
  


_A monster._

  
  


Her words bit deeper than anything she could thrust his way.

  
  


“I can’t say I’m sorry that I beat you to Anslow. That’s what you’re bitter about, not the others. You would’ve done the same. It’s easy to deny it when the blood isn’t on your hands. But, see?”

  
  


She reveled in the stillness, the imperfect white crescent of her mouth edging up into a smirk. Vindicated. “It’s awfully cold down here, isn’t it?”

  
  


_“You-”_

  
  


He pressed his fingers through the fraying white slit in the cloth he wore. A flush of crimson had begun to bite and spread from the cotton seam. _His seams. He was falling apart-_

  
  


But he owed her nothing.

  
  


In some fit of adrenaline, or perhaps a lack thereof, he found himself stoic. He was calm.

  
  


He was just the same as he had been, before all had been done- unchanging. Lost. It was an abhorrent comfort.

  
  


Selfish. Yet this was his own all the same. 

  
  


Kieran raised his hands slowly over his shoulders, curled his tainted hands. Feverish, he pulled himself up, acquiescent.

  
  


_“I digress.”_

  
  


She received it with absent nonchalance, bowed over herself, head ducked.

  
  


Kieran fished for his coat, then his gun, and paced backwards to the gate. He held the unreciprocated gaze like a string between two shaking, bleeding fingers - one that, should he have been weak-willed enough to drop, he would find himself falling, too.

  
  


His shoes rasped out a little melody against the cave floor. A requiem of farewell and spite.

  
  


Kieran had known sorrow in fathoms, guilt weighed against regret. Hate, he found, was not so much of a burden. Rather, he could bear it with a frantic ease.

  
  


Hate was more viscous, more pliable. So long as he didn’t choke on it, so long as he could breathe through the haze, he would be stable. He would be found.

  
  


And he was still breathing.

  
  


She had taken his blood, his ammunition and armor, the spine from between his shoulders. But she would not have his heart. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	21. Tabula Rasa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I knew that I was signing my dignity away, making a deal with the devil. But it hurts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(or: blank slate)_
> 
> Hey, friends. It's come to a point where I've had to choose between a rock and a hard place in terms of how I paint the rest of this story. I'm not going to pretend to know how actual canon can compare to what I've written. So for the next few chapters, there may be a *bit* of artistic license in terms of backstory. I'm leaving it flexible for the future, but it's never certain, is it? Enjoy <3

When he left, he left nothing. When he left, her mind did not follow.

  
  


Lauren did not immediately think of him, and what he knew, and what she’d done. Not in that sense.

  
  


She did not object to _his_ ghost finding her, to the way it curled up on her shoulder, the angel in her ear that she should not touch.

  
  


But she was doing what it took to keep her head above water. She’d shackled herself because she needed the chains.

  
  


_Him._ The flashes came slower and more sparsely, by then. A laugh like a sunshower and the smell of nectar, daisy pollen speckled across her face. The jagged angles of a smile and a fresh voice - then two voices, older, smarter. Six numbers and letters that couldn’t seem to leave her head. 

  
  


It had been weeks since she’d first held those answers. She knew that she had moved on from _them_ far too quickly.

  
  


Lauren dropped to her knees, began to thumb through one of the piles that had maintained an illusion of order. The words were inconsequential. Not enough. Never enough.

  
  


She looked down in a moment of reprieve - and was drawn out as soon as she submerged. The pages on her lap were tainted, not right. Splotches of crimson marked the corners, mingling with the ink. Black, and red, and _White-_

  
  


She had cut him. She had felt him shake under her palms.

  
  


A curse fell over her lips as she shoved herself from the mess. He had, in fact, left something behind; whispers and pieces of himself in their work. Thousands of times over in ink and sweat dyed crimson, he had drawn portraits. He had written his name.

  
  


Lauren flipped her index - a small bead of red had already risen in a mound above the smudges on her skin. She had cut herself on one of the sheets, and she was the one bleeding.

  
  


This was not what she wanted.

...

  
  
  


In the wake of the storm, he was numb.

  
  


_You did this to yourself,_ he couldn’t help but think. _Look at what you’ve done._

  
  


His shoulder thrashed against a tree trunk. He did not notice.

  
  


She’d made a puppet out of him. This bargain, an eye for an eye for the sake of finally seeing. _You’ve done this._ Despite how he wanted nothing more than to run until his bones splintered into disrepair, he slowed his gait in time to find himself no longer alone again.

  
  


The streets were uncharacteristically crowded, even swollen with the rush. He was a police officer. He was supposed to be presentable and protective - everything he was not as of then, with a sopping jacket across his shoulders and an unsteady stance. He had no right to speak of grace. 

  
  


Kieran pulled the coat into his hands. He folded the brass of his badge and the golden lapels in on themselves. He pressed the bundle to his chest, covered the pinkened tear in his shirt - and skin - with the mess. He’d take rain over blood.

  
  


He lost himself in the fringe of umbrellas, a flock that moved in asymmetric symphony like a murder of crows. It babbled like one, too, a collection of harsh whispers and drunken shouts, the occasional baited breath as he passed the faceless strangers. It was loud even above that - a faint whisper of a siren, the glass tang of piano keys from a manor down by the strait, the wind over it all - the harsh and grounding reminder, a child that keened. He knew better than to seek more than a lack of reprieve. He wanted everyone out.

  
  


It was too loud.

  
  


But the precinct - it was quiet at night.

  
  


The last of the patrol had embarked on their redeyes, and all others with common sense had made their way home. So, there was no one to remark as Kieran pressed his way through the doors, as he staggered down the stairs to the maze of lockers. No one would comment on the horrid sound of him fumbling with the keys of his own, or the strangled noise that leapt from his throat as he tore off his rain-soaked jacket, as he pulled his shirt over his head. It was some fever dream that she had made tangible, made real. Kieran pressed the skin of his back into the cold metal of the unit. He tried to wake up.

  
  
  


To say he was in danger would be hyperbole. In truth, the wound wasn’t much of one to begin with - an ugly little slit over his heart that had practically clotted over by the time he arrived. It was small, an inconvenience at most. 

  
  


His fingers curled to press against his ribs. Despite the illusion of life that had been pressed pink into his face and limbs by the cold, he was working with some pallid shard of himself, all corded sinew and concave edges. Nothing more than one of his single-minute sketches, the lees of a vignette in place of something complete. 

  
  


It did not stop him tearing the kit from his locker with unnecessary force, or from putting his teeth to his roll of gauze and tearing it a yard longer than necessary. He wrapped himself in the coil like a vice of his choosing.

  
  


So he traded what remained of his uniform for something more forgiving, his boots for something more restrained. He tugged his hair loose. He grimaced at what came of raising his arms, noticing that his face revolted against the pull, too. He ran a finger down his jaw, then turned to the mirror on his side.

  
  


Five angry red half-moons had made their homes across his skin - one on the left, four to the right. They framed his face as he tilted it, contorted with his mouth as his expression fell into something more acrid than shocked. A twist of a snarl that didn’t seem to fit.

  
  


He did nothing more to acknowledge it.

  
  


The gym was empty, as to be expected. It was a small mercy that the muted glare of the lights didn’t reach the room itself. The last dregs of blue from the sunrise were the only illumination on the brick facades, the pit and mats. Kieran stalked to the sandbag in the corner. 

  
  


The first strike was feeble. Half-assed. A reminder, a nudge. 

  
  


_We had a deal. But… I knew. I knew-_

  
  


He leaned back with more momentum, and swung his knuckles again into the leather stitching.

  
  


He was numb, until he was not. Kieran canted his head, pulled back his shoulders, and let his fists say what he couldn’t.

  
  


It was ridiculous of him to think his partner the rock between them, stable enough to ground both. She was delusional, obsessed.

  
  


And he himself - he would have considered himself to be, under most circumstances, a rational man. Kieran White took his losses, looked upon things with his hands close to his chest. He had thought themselves to have become something constant, like a heartbeat. But life was not a measure of consistency, because it was fleeting.

  
  


Maybe he was presumptuous. _I knew that I was signing my dignity away, making a deal with the devil. But it hurts._

  
  


If he had known what was to come, he could have brought the gears to a halt. There would be no blood spilled on stone, innocent or otherwise.

  
  


_The criminals, the guards-_

  
  


His breath hitched in his throat.

  
  


_They’re all dead. And she’s to blame. We’re to blame._

  
  


He rolled his hand in place. Underneath tatters of gauze, the ridge of his knuckles had begun to pink and bruise. Kieran would have claimed the marks before, because he could profess that this retribution was what he needed. _Pay your dues back._

  
  


From the outside looking in: Shredding his fists against leather, the discordant fluster of the bag’s suspension chain tangible even in his bones, it was futile. It was sick, and he was tired of it. He was exhausted.

  
  


_Pay it back._

  
  


This was all he knew. But he was learning.

  
  


_It’s the fact that she tried to pry Anslow open, before murdering him. I can’t wrap my head around it. That she got something out of him in the end._

  
  


This, and that she’d bled Kieran. If not so much as the others, because he was alive and kicking and utterly bent. She had gone too far.

  
  


_What I would have been willing to give to hear what he had said-_

  
  


Kieran stopped.

  
  


Lauren had what he wanted. In a twisted way, it made sense, what she’d done. He ran his fingers down the leather seams of the bag. His others fluttered to his collarbone, his chest. And he remembered.

  
  


Kieran doubled back, picked up his cadence and fired another uppercut and swing, a set that left him worse for wear. He couldn’t help but think that the assassin wouldn’t have been so passive, so nonchalant, if she didn’t think him to know what he craved. Did she suspect that he’d take her hand from the start, that he’d fall alongside her with a rueful smile, that he’d snort and ask if she’d had a late evening, that he’d roll his shoulders back and say _Wash your hands, Rosenthal, the night is young and we need not sleep-?_

  
  


She had thought he was twisted enough to accept it. He had thought she was sound enough to stay intact.

  
  


_You forget yourself. That you’re a bit of a monster too-_

  
  


He responded to no one, an affirmation that he understood, he knew. It escaped his lips as more of an empty shout. His own sound startled him and he yielded back, the last wisp of his cry ringing off the brick. 

  
  


No reply. It was something close to calming.

  
  


The bag swung in front of him, rocking in cut time with his heartbeat. Kieran pressed his forehead to the cloth, made peace with his own labored breaths.

  
  


_I already knew. That’s what hurt the most._

  
  


And he was so sorry.

  
  


_This is fixation._

  
  
  


And it did nothing. He did not know anymore, where it hurt.

  
  


_I couldn’t find answers for you. But she dangled them over me, like some-_

  
  


Kieran raised his hand to strike again, and an audible tear pleaded against him. He’d nearly forgotten about those sutures, the neat line in his forearm now unraveled and beaten, skin visibly parted in plea. His own body had told him that it had had enough.

  
  


All of this had happened before - and it had happened again, save for the fact that he was older, more jaded than not. Pence in his pocket and something more than a practiced daydream behind his eyes. He should have known better.

  
  


Because things had never really changed. The broken boy grew up to be the wayward man.

  
  


Surely, when all was said and done, he'd go home. He would take out his sketchbook, massacre a clean page or two. He would avoid the ones that were already marked. It was such an ugly amalgamation of the thing he was, the thing he hoped to be. But if this was to be another spoke in his cycle, he supposed he had changed a bit. That was what he did - he played with fire, he burned, he cauterized his wounds. 

  
  


He did not want to live like that anymore. But he had to keep going.

  
  
  


…

  
  


Because she did not forget herself, Lauren pushed a pair of heavy wooden doors open without a sound. They were old, she knew as much. The carved facet pushed splinters through her gloves. She did not take them off. 

It wouldn’t have been hard to delude herself into thinking there was any drop of life in the stone, that people would soon line in the pews and sing their hymns. But there were no attendants to mass, save for ivy consumption and stained glass, the ruins of what once were. She sunk into the quiet, smoothing the dark velvet of her fleece. It was the color of poppies, something new. She quite liked it. 

  
  


It was the small pockets of normalcy that kept her moving.

  
  


The confessional booth nestled in the corner was its own form of decrepit. The wood still maintained its varnish, cut and carved with silhouettes of motifs and hapless deities. The curtain, all mildewy linen, looked as though it would crumble if she went so far as to breathe, much less under her touch. Against her better judgement, Lauren stepped inside and sat down on the narrow bench.

  
  


She dropped her head to the wooden backboard. The words that she spoke were with intention, but not her own. “Forgive me, my Father, for I have sinned.”

  
  


In response, the curtains to her right flicked open. A beaked figure looked through the meshing of bars in her periphery. She had been expected, as she knew. “Hyacinth. The Leader is pleased with your work from yesterday. The four you eliminated were threats to the Scythe’s prosperity.”

  
  
  


Lauren said nothing. Fifteen floors. Record bloodshed. Another tally on the docket, another scar on her back.

  
  


_You should be so proud._

  
The Messenger remained stolid, no life beyond his voice, an austere sound that suited how he looked. “Despite what you may think, you’re held in very high regards. As of late, you’ve been resourceful and your unreliability is outweighed by the boons you bring to the table. He knew that for this, you would not falter.”

  
  


“Of course. What’s done is done.” It rested on her tongue, bitter like liquor. The words went down just as harshly.

  
  


“The Leader has another mission for you. You will find instructions for said mission adhered underneath your bench - contents to be burned immediately after reading.”

  
  


She fished for the file, and came up successful. “He’s been demanding lately. Not that I mind.”

  
  


“This assignment, as it happens, is crucial.” He paused, almost hesitant. Never indecisive. “The Leader wants you to find the traitors hiding under the name of Lune, and kill them.”

  
  


So she would not falter, either. “Fine.”

  
  


“The Leader expects results promptly, Hyacinth. We’re putting a lot of coin under your name. Know that it can just as easily be revoked.”

  
  


“Hm.” Lauren skimmed the document. She reread it. She reread it again. “Wait-”

  
  


“I’m aware of what the print denotes.”

  
  


“You- he can’t expect me to-” She faltered, broke her promise to herself. Her voice fractured along with her vow, jumping an octave, bordering on panic only she could hear. _“This- this is suicide. If not that, then a death wish.”_ She bent into accusation. _“You need me.”_

  
  


It was to no avail. “As I said, he has faith. In actuality, this is rather effective. So you must be as well. Tomorrow.”

  
  


It was already dark. She found herself. “I’ll make preparations tonight.” 

  
  


“Good.” The curtains flicked closed, and again she was alone. 

  
  


She hated him, she hated them, she wanted to waste this entire city.

  
  


But it wasn’t until she hit the winter frost, her eyes beginning to sting from something other than the cold, that she began to loathe herself.

  
  


They had said she was free. They had never said she was safe. And that had been enough.

  
  


_Are you satisfied?_

  
  


Lauren would not bring herself to covet something intangible. The pinch of cotton and daisy satin between her fingers, the sun on her face, the whip of a warm gale over the shell of her ear - things she could not have. Then she would be complete.

  
  


She would not long for what she could not see. But even still-

  
  


If she could hear what _he_ didn’t want to, if she knew, then she wouldn’t have been brought to her knees. She could have stopped herself before she hit the ground. If she had heard the lies, everything could have been different.

  
  


…

The arms cabinet was locked, but his key was near. His fretting hands scavenged through the metal for something suitable - undoubtedly himself, but now pastiche. In some ways, picking up the knife was like returning to an abusive lover. This fear, it came to Kieran in spits and revertebrations. Mirages. Her breath at his pulse rather than her blade at his chest.

  
  


There was nothing more to do, other than cut the afflicted limb and hope that he himself did not fester. He refused to break into a cold sweat at the sound of metal’s song, to forget his name when a knife was pulled.

  
  


This was how he would choose to remedy that ache. He would only fear what he could not see.

  
  


The two blades he chose were identical, both dull and worn. The hilts didn’t quite fit his palms. Imperfect in form and judgements, he rocked the handles into the hollows between his two fingers, a parody of talons.

  
  


From one reminder came more - the melodic drag of his finger through the pewter belly of an ashtray to create something whole. The telling soot stain on his fingertip in the incalculable after, the scratch of threadbare linen against his back. Drops of rosy water against a jackdaw’s wings.

  
  


He had been too young, then. And he had been so close to becoming something even worse. Despite how he’d flitted above the damage, he’d always had an affinity for destruction. 

  
  


The dartboard in the corner was a blister on the chalked walls, red and white that stuck out against the monochrome. Suiting, he thought, that he’d make a game out of such a thing.

  
  


Kieran’s aim - literal or otherwise - would be his sycophant, and his worst enemy.

  
  


He knew he could not make the throw, so he did not try. His legs preceded his wary eyes as he lunged forward instead, driving the knife into the perfect red circle at the target’s center. His palm lingered on the hilt, eyes flickering at what he’d done.

  
  


In using it, the reason that he had dropped it became far more palpable.

  
  


His second knife fell to the mat with next, soundless, a quick flush of air with no revertebration. Nothing left behind.

  
  


Kieran allowed his legs to go slack, himself to fall backwards. He hit the mat lightly. There was a trick to falling with grace, one that he found himself to know.

  
  


_I can’t say I’ve been hurting myself for you anymore. I don’t know you._

  
  


He drummed his fingers against the mat, barely moving. Barely perceiving.

  
  


The swell in the back of his throat and the singe of his eyes were almost nostalgic, in a sense. He pressed his lids open. He clenched his jaw.

  
  


_Come on._ He was done hiding - he would wait for the wave to crest, the storm to pass. _Come on._

  
  


They didn’t.

  
  


_This feeling-_

  
  


_It’s made something of me that I don’t want to see._

  
  


Deadlock. Impasse. Stalemate.

  
  


Kieran pulled his head up to face the window. Dusk already came and passed, much to his chagrin - the next morning, he was expected.

  
  
  
  


...

  
  


**November 16th, XX17**

  
  


_“Detective Sinclair.”_

  
  


_Tristan looks up from the slew of papers atop his desk, near startled. The crick in his neck and the sting in his eyes have worsened - he knows then that he has been still for some t_ _ime._

  
  


_March is propped against the doorframe, hardly relaxed. “Your work ethic… It doesn’t leave much to be desired.”_

  
  


_“I could say the same for you.”  
_

_The other detective’s jaw is still swollen, cradled in sterile gauze. A lick of red peeks through the wrappings. “And about Rachel and Alexander-”_

  
  


_“They’re managing. Dakan’s been a saint, I can’t fathom how he’s making time for us, but-”_

  
  
  


_“Go to them.”_

  
  


_“No.” The possibility of being anywhere other than in front of his foil of paper and ink is near unfathomable. He sometimes wonders if it’s genetic, this urge to do more, be more, know more. But confronting the Goliath has always been his favored method of evasion._

  
  


_His other coworker winds up in his wake, heralded by the soot and soil tracked behind him that no one seems to mind. Hermann peers over Tristan’s shoulder like a curious child. “Old Money, staying into the dawn for-'' his eyes flick downwards. “One of the Greychapel kids?”_

  
  


_“We think so. And the timing’s a matter of circumstance, Hermann-”_

  
  


_The officer skims the paragraphs. For a moment, he was intent._ “...43 _isn’t going to know.”_

  
  


_“Don’t call him by a number. Hell knows we need to know them by their names, if we’re going to get anywhere…” They are no longer detectives, they are doctors. They have patients._

  
  


_“There’s so many, Tristan. Sympathy is necessary, but make it an afterthought. The most important thing is to glean what we can from these victims.” The way he speaks makes it seem as though they are to commit a second tragedy. The officer paces back, sinking against the wall. Hermann looks small, worn down and robbed of conviction. The air outside is still thick. “You’re far too noble for your own good.”_

  
  


_Even so, March tilts his head to him, his mouth curled into something rueful. “You sound so much like Stefan.”_

  
  


_The comparison both builds him up and breaks him down. “Pragmatism. I’m not going to pretend to be a part of your unit, but these are my two cents. Do with them what you will.” Hermann disappears in a huff, further blackening the carpets behind them, each step a weight from his conscience._

  
  


_March turns back. “You’re meeting with Stefan tomorrow-”_

  
  


_“-today.” Tristan flinches, peering up at the clock. The hands on the porcelain are near illegible through the haze._ Focus. 

  
  


_“-Sure, today, aren’t you?”_

  
  


_“Mm.” He presses a paperclip over his docket and files. “I’m not going to pretend to know what he wants from me.”_

  
  


_The Chief hadn’t been seen since the world first went red. His patience was already waning._

  
  


_March flicks the papers. “Let me take this one. Go home, get some rest, he hasn’t met you yet. It’s not like you’d be abandoning a case.” Under his breath, he adds, “per se.”_

  
  


_And that’s what sends Tristan over. “But he knows who to expect, my name. I refuse to let him pass, like flotsam in the sea-” His chair scrapes out behind him, and he leaves his partner in his wake as he weaves past the other insomniacs._

  
  


_The hall beneath the office is far more quiet. He’s among his kind, the relentless ones who stay and wait. This isn’t to be so much of an interrogation as it is a query. A gentle offer to listen, to know._

  
  


_Tristan opens the door._

  
  


_His first thought is that his subject is young. Not a child. Not grown._

  
  


_He already knew this. He’s made it his business to learn his first and last name, his age, the planes of his face down to the very last divot - which now stares downcast towards his palms, like he’s lost something fleeting that he once held and is only now realizing has gone missing._

  
  


_He is clean, hastily dressed in respectable clothes like the rest of them. But Tristan can still see the haze of smoke behind his eyes, can hear the rattling of ash in his lungs as the boy inhales, the way his little shoulders tighten when the telltale scratch of a chair suggests that he is no longer alone._

  
  


_Tristan presses his folder into the table, takes his place in the seat across. When he speaks, he is no longer hesitant. “Kieran White.”_

  
  


_The boy looks up, snapping to attention and life as if he’s been awoken from some ephemeral daydream. A nightmare, more like._

  
  
  


_“There’s a lot I’d like to speak of, and I hope you’ll lend me a word in return. But the first thing I’ll say-” Tristan presses his mouth into a thin line, and speaks the words that he least needs to hear._

  
  


_“I’m so, so sorry.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.
> 
> Did that read like a fever dream? Kind of. I wrote a lot of it in the random pockets of time that I found this past month, and now feel like if I touch it any further I'll just ruin something, HAHA. Thanks for waiting for it :)
> 
> A special shoutout to my BR- she called me on New Year's Eve, drunk, rambling on about Kieran with knives. And thus came more pain. 
> 
> To my more sober friend, June- thanks so much for lending an eye :>
> 
> I'm sorry I haven't been able to be more engaged during this time- please know that I've enjoyed ALL of what I've read. You're all so very talented.
> 
> I missed you all, and am happy to be back! Semifinale coming up- brace for impact <3


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